I  I  I  I  I 
3   1822  01088  2322 


3   1822  01088  2322 


WRITINGS  OF  MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 


MRS.  WHITNEY  has  succeeded  in  domesticating  herself  in  a  great  number  of 
American  homes.  The  purity,  sweetness,  shrewdness,  tenderness,  humor,  the 
elevated  but  still  homely  Christian  faith,  which  find  expression  in  her  writings, 
endear  her  to  thousands.  —  E.  P.  WHIFFLE. 

If  there  is  any  other  American  writer  who  so  thoroughly  understands  girls  as 

Mrs.  Whitney,  we  have  yet  to  see  the  evidence  of  his  or  her  knowledge 

All  her  writings  are  penetrated  with  a  spirit  of  beautifying  purity,  a  sort  of  moral 
cleanness,  that  is  most  delightful  to  recognize. — Literary  World. 


FAITH  GARTNEY'S  GIRLHOOD.     Illustrated.     i2mo $1.50 

THE  GAYWORTHYS:    A  Story  of  Threads  and  Thrums.     i2mo 1.50 

A  SUMMER  IN   LESLIE  GOLDTHWAITE'S   LIFE.     Illustrated.    i2mo  1.50 

PATIENCE   STRONG'S   OUTINGS.     I2mo 1.50 

HITHERTO;    A  Story  of  Yesterdays.     i2mo 1.50 

REAL  FOLKS.     Illustrated,     izmo 1.50 

WE  GIRLS:   A  Home  Story.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

THE  OTHER  GIRLS.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

SIGHTS  AND  INSIGHTS.     2  vols.  i2mo 3.00 

PANSIES:   A  Volume  of  Poems.     Beautifully  bound  in  purple  and  gold. 

i6mo 1.50 

JUST  HOW:   A  Key  to  the  Cook-Books.     i6mo i.oo 

Such  books  as  hers  should  be  in  every  household,  to  be  read,  loaned,  re-read, 
and  re-loaned,  so  long  as  the  leaves  ai.d  cover  will  hold  together,  —  not  holiday 
volumes  for  elegant  quiet,  but  stirring  and  aggressive  works,  with  a  "mission, 
which  is,  to  make  the  world  better  than  they  find  it."  —  Boston  Commonwealth. 

*#*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,     Sent  by  mail,  post-paid,  by 

HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   AND   CO.,    BOSTON. 


ODD,   OR    EVEN? 


BY 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

^^r^ 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  GAYWORTHYS,"   "HITHERTO,"   "SIGHTS  AND  INSIGHTS,' 
THE  "REAL  FOLKS"  SERIES,  ETC,  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

Cbc  Htoerstte  I3rccc,  CambriUjr. 
1880. 


Copyright,  1880, 
Bv  HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS-. 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  BETWEEN 5 

II.  So  QUEER! 13 

III.  FARM-YARD  AND  KITCHEN 22 

IV.  POLITE  TO  A  BUTTERFLY 35 

V.  HIDE  AND  Go  SEEK 44 

VI.  HAY-SWATHS  AND  HIGH  COURTESY 48 

VII.  SARELL  AND  EAST  HOLLOW 54 

VIII.  GOOD  AT  A  HOLD-BACK 63 

IX.  THE  EAST  KOOM  AT  EAST  HOLLOW 68 

X.  THE  GREAT  PYRAMID 81 

XI.  BRACKETS  AND  INTERLINES 91 

XII.  THE  RED  QUARRIES 97 

XIII.  How  MUCH  MORE  DOES  IT  TAKE? 102 

XIV.  MOUNTAIN  FOGS  AND  CLEAR-RUNNING  WATERS  .     .    .  109 
XV.  IN  THE  RING  OR  ON  THE  ROAD? 135 

XVL  THE  HAY  PARLOR 140 

XVII.  THE  DAM  PASTURE 151 

XVIII.  THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS 174 

XIX.  A  WORLD  FOR  ME 193 

XX.  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 203 

XXI.  SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON 213 

XXII.  MONDAY 231 

XXIII.  PLANS,  A  PLOT,  AND  A  PLEADING 240 

XXIV.  DAY-DAWN  IN  THE  DAIRY 255 

XXV.  IT    MUST    TAKE    CARE    OF    ITSELF 261 

XXVI.  "NOT  HALF  GOOD  ENOUGH"     ....         ....  266 


IV  CONTENTS, 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXVII.  "OLD  THUNDER" 273 

XXVIII.  THE  SENSE  OF  IT 284 

XXIX.   CROWNED  HEAD 290 

XXX.   SAFEGUARDS 313 

XXXI.  BOLTS  AND  BONDS 327 

XXXII.   CASH  AND  INVESTMENT 340 

XXXIII.  "WALKING  PRIDE" 348 

XXXIV.  HOBGOBLINS 355 

XXXV.   SHOWS  AND  DISQUIETS 866 

XXXVI.   DRIFT 376 

XXXVII.  TWENTY  QUESTIONS 383 

XXXVIII.  THE  PRODIGAL  DAUGHTER 391 

XXXIX.   BENEDICITE 396 

XL.  QUIT-CLAIM 401 

XLI.   NUMBER  NINE 408 

XLII.  THE  FREE-WILL  CHANCE 419 

XLIII.   MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  ULTIMATUM 432 

XLIV.   SARELL  GIVES  ODDS  AND  COMES  OUT  EVEN  ....  441 

XLV.  NINE  FROM  NOUGHT,  AND  FELLAIDEN  NEWS     .    .    .  462 

XL VI.   "  THOSE  DOZEN  YEARS  OF  OURS  " 474 

XLVII.   CHIMES 481 

XLVIII.   OUTSIDE  WITH  A  DARK  LANTERN 488 

XLIX.   ROSE-GLORIES 497 

L.  THE  BEST  WORD                                     603 


ODD,  OR   EVEN? 


CHAPTER  I. 

BETWEEN. 

"  MIDDLE-CLASS  !  I  've  no  patience  ! "  said  Miss  Ammah,  with 
her  nose  nearly  horizontal.  "  We  're  all  middle-class.  We  're 
all  between  somebody  and  somebody  else.  But  you  need  n't 
be  middling.  It's  only  middling  that's  mean,  anywhere." 

"  And  yet,  Miss  Ammah,  your  grocer's  family  —  " 

"  Grocer  ]  What 's  a  grocer  1  Look  in  your  Webster.  Your 
father 's  a  grocer." 

"  Why,  Miss  Ammah  !     Papa  sells  cargoes" 

Miss  Ammah  was  great  on  etymologies.  "  What  his  vessels 
are  charged  with,  that  is  1 " 

"  Of  course  —  I  suppose  so."  The  two  first  words  came  at 
once,  the  last  three  dubiously  and  slower;  as  if  the  girl,  be 
tween  her  periods,  mistrusted  that  she  might  be  jumping  into 
a  trap. 

"  And  Mr.  Raxley  sells  what  his  warehouse  is  charged  with. 
Where  's  the  difference  1 " 

Euphemia  spoke  now.     It  had  been  Helen  before. 

"  Papa  studies  the  world,"  she  said  proudly.  "  He  brings 
things  over  the  seas.  The  other  man  takes  what  he  brings  and 
sells  it  over  a  counter." 

"The  other  man  studies  his  neighborhood  and  what  his 
neighbors  want ;  but  you  have  reason,  Euphemia.  Only  they 
both  stand  between ;  that  is  what  I  said.  And  it  is  a  round  and 
round.  Nobody  is  actually  bottom  and  nobody  is  actually  top, 
any  more  than  they  are  on  the  globe." 

"  And  yet  there  is  a  top  and  a  bottom  and  a  between  to  every 
thing  that  exists  on  the  globe,"  said  Frances,  — "  society, 


6  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 

schools,  families.  I  know,  for  I  'm  a  between ;  and  that 's  why 
nobody  settles  or  thinks  where  I  'm  to  go  this  summer.  Phemie 
and  Helen  have  got  invitations,  —  they  always  have,  —  and  the 
little  ones  are  to  go  with  mamma ;  but  I  'm  skipped,  so  far.  I 
suppose  I  shall  be  perceived  and  picked  up,  somehow,  in  the 
packing,  as  other  odds  and  ends  are.  Not  that  I  'm  an  end," 
she  corrected  herself,  saving  her  unities  of  speech,  "  only  an 
odd,  —  number  five,  tucked  in  at  the  middle." 

Nobody  minded  Frances  and  her  queer  sayings.  She  was 
always  an  odd,  as  she  declared. 

"  This  does  n't  settle  the  calling,"  said  Euphemia.  "  I  don't 
know  why  we  should  worry  to  return  a  visit  that  was  altogether 
accidental,  any  way,  when  we  can't  keep  up  the  acquaintance, 
and  there  are  loads  of  people  we  re'ally  do  know,  and  owe  to. 
We  shall  never  get  round." 

"  That  comes  of  taking  your  friendships  in  cargoes,"  quoth 
Miss  Amman. 

"  And  of  being  so  lovely  to  the  accidentals  when  you  did  n't 
mean  anything  continuing ;  practising  the  high  bred  that  is  too 
high  bred  to  be  sniffy,  when  you're  going  to  turn  out  sniffy 
after  all,"  said  uncompromising,  clear-sighted  France.  "For  my 
part,  I  'd  rather  go  see  the  Raxleys  any  day  than  the  Talfreys. 
But  why  can't  we  be  like  the  planets  ?  "  she  concluded  suddenly, 
with  the  utmost  freshness  of  simple  suggestion,  and  looking  up 
innocently,  as  she  paused  for  information. 

"  Don't  be  utterly  nonsensical !  "  said  Euphemia  impatiently. 
She  thought  France  meant  something  about  being  high  and 
established  enough  in  the  firmament  to  shine  on  all  alike  ; 
and  if  there  was  anything  Euphemia  could  not  bear,  it  was 
the  slightest  hint  that  there  was  any  effort  in  their  social  life, 
or  that  they  needed  to  be  "  like  "  anybody. 

"  Am  1 1 "  asked  France  meekly.  "  I  was  only  thinking  that 
they  never  go  out  of  their  orbits.  They  just  let  the  conjunc 
tions  come  about  as  the  way  leads  and  the  time  comes  round. 
Why  can't  people  keep  on  their  own  ways,  and  meet  and  be 
pleasant  when  it  happens  so  ]  Why  must  there  be  duty  calls  ] 
so  called  because  duty  is  exactly  —  " 

"  Now  don't  quote  Lucus  —  " 


BETWEEN.  7 

"  I  'm  not  going  to.     Don't  do  it  yourself." 

"  Don't  you  really  know  what  you  are  going  to  do  with  your 
self,  —  what  you  're  going  to  be  done  with,  —  this  summer, 
France  1 "  Miss  Ammah  shook  her  head  at  the  maid  offering 
her  a  superfluous  hot  waffle,  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the 
table,  and  turned  her  face  suddenly  toward  Frances,  where  she 
sat  with  the  cat  in  her  lap,  teasing  its  ears. 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Then  come  with  me  up  to  Fellaiden." 

France  had  brought  it  down  upon  her  now,  the  others 
thought.  Neither  Helen  nor  Euphemia  would  have  gone  to 
Fellaiden  to  pass  the  summer  for  anything.  There  was  a  dead 
silence  in  the  room  for  forty  seconds,  partly  because  all  of 
them  were  also  struck  with  wonder  at  the  invitation  itself; 
since  Miss  Ammah,  able  to  monopolize  and  pay  for  it,  had  held 
on  to  Fellaiden  as  a  monopoly  for  the  last  five  years.  She  had 
discovered  it ;  she  paid  seven  dollars  a  week  for  her  board, 
where  the  price  was  only  five,  and  had  everything  her  own 
comfortable  way  there  :  hence,  she  was  not  disposed  to  open 
it  to  irruptions  and  demoralizations,  even  when  her  especial 
friends  intimated  how  much  they  should  like  to  come  up  for 
a  few  weeks,  if  there  would  be  room  for  them.  Upon  the  si 
lence  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Everidge,  the  mother  of  the 
young  ladies,  came  in. 

"  Mamma,"  cried  France,  "  Miss  Ammah  wants  me  to  go  up 
to  Fellaiden  with  her  this  summer.  Do  you  suppose  she 
means  it  ]  " 

Miss  Ammah  took  up  her  knitting  from  a  basket  on  the 
e"tagere,  and  left  them  to  settle  it. 

"  How  should  you  like  it  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Everidge,  used  to  the 
family  friend's  original  ways. 

"  Middling,"  said  France  demurely. 

"  There  's  nothing  middling,  you  '11  find,  at  Fellaiden,  France 
Everidge,"  said  Miss  Ammah.  "Yes,  there  is,  too;  it's  two 
miles  up  a  three-mile  hill." 

"  A  funny  kind  of  middling,"  said  Helen. 

"  It 's  their  kind,"  said  Miss  Ammah. 

"  I  '11  go,"  said  France.     "  I  never  got  so  far  up  in  the  world 


8  ODD,   OB   EVEN? 

as  that.  It 's  just  the  step  beyond  for  me.  There 's  a  fate  in 
it.  Only  the  middle  will  be  dropped  out  of  this  family,  and 
they  '11  miss  it.  They  '11  be  all  old  ones  and  little  ones,  and 
nobody  to  fall  back  on  or  be  handed  over  to.  I  am  sorry  for 
the  Everidges." 

You  notice  she  had  not  thanked  Miss  Ammah  at  all  for  her 
invitation.  That  was  simply  because  Miss  Ammah  always 
hated  to  be  thanked. 

I  wish  to  moralize  in  about  three  lines.  A  mean  condition 
in  life,  between  any  two  in  genuine  order,  is  not  contemptible, 
as  Miss  Ammah  has  said.  The  mean  condition  is  to  feel  mid 
dling,  and  to  refuse  the  fact.  '  Then  comes  pretence  to  the  fact 
one  considers  be}rond,  and  that  is  the  meanest  condition  of  all. 

The  Everidges  were  a  nice  family,  pleasant  among  them 
selves,  and  with  much  possibility  of  pleasantness  outward  from 
among  themselves.  They  were  only  in  danger  of  being  spoiled 
by  the  thing  that  Miss  Ammah  attacked,  and  I  have  put  in  a 
moral.  For  though  papa  did  study  the  world,  and  bring  things 
from  over  seas,  —  which  was  rather  a  grand  way  of  express 
ing  that  he  owned  two  or  three  barques  and  schooners,  among 
other  things,  and  brought  sugars  and  coffees  from  wherever  in 
South  America  or  the  West  Indies  he  could  buy  and  load  from 
largest  and  cheapest  crops ;  that  he  received  consignments  of 
finer  specialties  from  the  Mediterranean,  and  even  the  far 
East ;  that  he  had  invested  in  a  Florida  orange-grove  since  the 
war,  and  made  a  good  deal  of  money  every  winter,  for  the  first 
few  years,  on  the  trips  of  the  Foambell  to  the  St.  Johns,  —  and 
though,  besides  all  this,  he  had,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  after 
the  big  Rebellion  let  all  latent  rebellions  loose,  slidden  from  his 
old-fashioned,  steady,  inherited  business  into  the  nominalities, 
and  made  lucky  dips  into  stocks  and  bonds,  —  as  lucky  with 
drawals,  also,  by  that  rare  instinct  of  probabilities  which  gets 
ahead  of  storms  in  trade,  as  the  calculators  at  Washington  get 
ahead  with  their  cautions  of  the  wheel  and  march  of  cyclones, — 
and  so  had  stood  for  a  keen  man  and  a  bold  operator  among 
business  men,  and  represented  to  his  family  and  immediate  de 
pendents  and  admirers  all  the  kingdom  of  the  commercial  world 
and  the  glory  of  it,  —  this  was  not  the  whole  of  possible  height 


BETWEEN.  9 

or  sure-fast  place,  and  they  all  knew  it.  It  was  a  way  and  a 
help  to  something,  but  it  was  a  thing  of  to-day  in  itself,  and  to 
morrow  might  change  it.  Rather,  even,  was  it  not  already,  in 
essential  respects,  the  thing  of  yesterday,  which  the  hard,  un 
certain,  shifting  to-day  was  fast  changing  from  all  established 
centre  and  solid,  confident  advance  1 

"  Papa  studied  the  world."  They  had  learned  that  by  heart, 
and  to  be  proud  of  it,  almost  in  their  babyhood  ;  but  the  world 
had  been  something  of  a  queer,  uncertain  book  to  study  in  the 
later  times,  with  the  whirling  of  its  leaves  in  the  wind,  and 
the  shutting  down  of  chapter  after  chapter,  till  it  seemed 
as  if  the  whole  volume  of  the  current  order  of  things  were  to 
be  closed  up,  perhaps ;  and  men,  missing  the  old  lines  and  con 
nections,  felt  themselves  failing  in  their  hearts  for  fear,  as  the 
cross  readings  turned  to  threatening  prophecies. 

Mr.  Everidge  held  on  through  the  depression  and  the  closing 
in  :  that  was  all  the  bravest  and  the  strongest  could  do.  That, 
for  him,  gave  standing  and  honor  of  itself;  he  was  as  proud  of 
that  as  he  had  been  of  his  push  and  energy  in  the  time  passed 
by.  The  household  and  social  life  went  on,  if  not  altogether  as  it 
had  done  in  the  gay,  lavish  days,  yet  without  fear  of  stop  or 
any  pinching  stint ;  and  the  measure  and  the  consciousness  of 
the  life  went  on  with  it.  It  was  still  the  measure  and  conscious 
ness  of  a  making,  as  Mr.  Everidge  had  made  his  money  by 
enterprise  fresh  in  the  memory  of  all.  It  was.  not  complete, 
asserted  beyond  assertion  :  it  depended  much  on  the  continu 
ance  of  the  external  condition  that  would  let  it  go  on  making, 
and  fulfil  its  chance  before  its  chance  should  fail.  Above  was 
something  that  had  been  born,  not  made  ;  had  been  large  and 
assured  in  all  its  generations ;  that  waited  now,  under  loss  and 
pressure,  as  a  thing  distinct  from  all  such  circumstance  ;  that 
had  become  a  little  more  withdrawn  and  difficult,  instead  of  less, 
during  the  quietness  of  days  adverse. 

Money,  its  elusive  unreality  so  newly  and*  everywhere  proved, 
was,  even  where  apparently  retained,  hardly  the  passport  that 
it  had  been.  People  did  not  want  brilliant  strangers  with 
passports  now  :  there  was 'a  reversion  to  the  natural-born  and 
long-abiding.  The  stand  must  at  least  be  upon  some  high  sort 


10  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

of  verity  and  growth.  Towards  such  stand,  for  whose  attainment 
fair  time  is  needful,  and  on  their  way  to  which  the  hard  time 
checked  people  just  where  they  happened  to  be,  if  it  did  not 
send  them  absolutely  rolling  down  again,  the  Everidges  were 
still  conscious  of  precisely  that  slight  upward  strain  that  is  a 
pleasure  in  its  successful  putting  forth,  but  becomes  a  pain 
when  it  has  to  halt  and  hold  its  own.  It  told  them  that,  broad 
as  the  brow  of  the  hill  might  be,  and  almost  insensible  its  gra 
cious  slope  about  the  crown,  they  were  yet  on  the  slope,  not 
the  apex,  —  between  that  and  the  ruggeder  dividing  ridges  and 
drops  below ;  so,  in  a  sense,  middling,  as  Miss  Ammah  said. 
But  when  Miss  Ammah  put  it  into  words,  it  made  them,  —  the 
elder  ones, — as  we  have  seen,  a  little  fractious  in  their  feeling. 

France,  the  very  middle  individual  of  them  all,  with  two  sis 
ters  just  older  and  taking  the  gloss  off  her  dream  of  life  by  try 
ing  everything  first  and  handing  back  the  remnants  to  her,  and 
two  younger  who  demanded  her  time  and  her  clothes  faster 
than  she  could  spare  them,  cared  less,  I  think,  for  the  collec 
tive  middlingness  than  any  of  them.  In  fact,  she  was  getting 
the  beginning  of  certain  theories  of  her  own,  rather  rebellious 
against  society ;  so  that  Euphemia  said  to  Mrs.  Everidge,  after 
the  Fellaiden  plan  had  been  decided,  "  There  is  one  thing, 
mamma :  she  will  come  home  worse  than  ever  about  her  calls 
and  her  politeness,  after  Miss  Ammah  and  the  farm  people." 

Perhaps  here,  in  a  couple  of  paragraphs,  I  had  better  tell  you 
who  Miss  Ammah  is. 

Her  name  —  the  rest  of  it  —  is  Tredgold.  She  has  n't  a 
near  relative  in  all  the  world,  but  she  is  family  confidante  and 
adviser  and  bosom  friend  to  a  score  of  families.  And  she  won't 
be  breveted  "  Aunt."  She  is  always,  among  these  friends,  Miss 
Ammah.  She  visits  in  town  and  out  of  town.  She  knows 
bankers  and  bakers.  In  the  pretty  suburb  where  the  Everidge 
"  Place "  has  been  set  up,  she  runs  up  and  down,  and  is  wel 
come,  from  Pine  Hills  to  the  "  Corner  "  village.  Within  this 
distance  are  the  usual  gradings  and  shadings  of  suburban  family 
and  neighborhood,  from  the  old  people  whose  estates,  in  the 
time  of  the  grandfathers,  had  been,  cut  through  by  the  first 
turnpike,  to  the  newcomers  into  the  last  French- roofed,  turreted, 


BETWEEN.  11 

modern-convenienced  dwelling  on  the  last  street  laid  out  near 
est  the  city  limit,  and  built  upon  in  a  hurry,  with  one  idea  for 
twenty  houses,  just  before  the  pulse  of  the  annexation  fever,  six 
or  seven  years  ago,  went  down. 

Miss  Ammah  Tredgold  does  not  "  live  upon  her  friends."  On 
the  contrary,  her  friends  live  so  much  upon  her  that  she  can 
only  plead  one  visiting  engagement  against  another  as  any  ex 
cuse  ;  and  a  dozen  households  are  ill-used  in  their  feelings  if 
she  ventures  to  stay  more  than  a  fortnight  at  a  time  at  her  own 
handsome  moorings  in  Hotel  Berkeley.  Her  sole  chance  of 
any  soleness  is  her  yearly  hegira  to  the  hills  of  Fellaiden. 

She  disappears  with  the  dropping  of  the  crocuses  and  daffo 
dils,  sometimes  with  the  last  snowflakes  even,  and  is  only 
known  to  have  disappeared  into  a  region  where  few  citizens  or 
suburbans  would  be  tempted,  if  they  could,  to  follow  her ;  and 
is  spoken  of  as  in  the  fastnesses,  "  somewhere."  They  all  know 
that,  wherever  it  is,  there  is  nothing  going  on  there  ;  it  isn't 
"  a  place,"  at  all,  only  a  nook  for  one.  She  is  as  safe  as  a  fox 
in  her  burrow.  And  now  it  was  decided  that  France,  the  odd 
one  of  the  Everidges,  should  disappear  with  her.  About  this 
there  were  already  several  minds  in  the  family,  —  several 
minds  in  the  parental  mind,  — although  it  was,  as  I  have  said, 
at  once  decided. 

The  minds  began  to  come  out  that  same  afternoon,  when 
Miss  Ammah  had  gone  up  to  the  Piues  to  stay  her  promised 
three  days  with  the  Johneses.  It  would  be  told  of  there,  and 
it  could  n't  well  be  taken  back  now,  but  it  would  remain  to  be 
accounted  for.  For  the  Everidges  held  themselves,  in  some* 
tacit  and  mystical  fashion,  as  bound  to  account  to  the  Johneses 
and  the  Talfreys  and  the  Sindons  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  Pyes 
whom  I  will  speak  of  separately,  presently  —  for  all  their  new 
movements,  as  on  some  basis  of  reason  recognizable  to  orthodox 
society ;  to  show  cause,  of  course  all  tacitly,  and  by  way  of 
merest  natural  and  graceful  mention,  of  their  own  whys,  —  why 
a  Johnes  or  a  Talfrey  or  a  Sindon  would  have  done  likewise  in 
the  circumstance.  They  were  bound  —  the  Everidges  —  to 
run  against  no  circumstance  even  that  might  not  as  well  lie  in 
these  other  people's  way ;  else  the  Everidge  way  was  obviously 


12  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

divergent,  here  and  there,  from  the  way  of  the  haute  volee,  and 
was  no  high  flight  at  all.  It  had  not  yet  occurred  to  them  that, 
in  the  great  firmament,  a  different  way,  that  might  be  a  yet 
higher  flight,  was  possible. 

"  It  will  lose  France  out  of  everything  for  four  months,"  said 
Helen ;  and  then  Euphemia  added  the  remark  about  the  calls 
and  the  politeness. 

"  But  it  is  Miss  Amman,"  said  their  mother.  "  And  France 
isn't  really  out  yet,  you  know." 

"But  she  ought  to  be  in  the  way  to  be  out,  oughtn't  she! 
And  as  to  Miss  Amman,  —  well,  people  have  her  for  a  week  or 
two  at  a  time,  and  it 's  the  fashion  to  pull  caps  for  her  for  that 
much  :  but  whether  anybody  would  go  off  and  shut  themselves 
up  with  her  for  all  summer?  I  just  wish  it  weren't  a  little, 
five-dollar,  up-country,  nobody-knows-where  farmhouse !  It 
seems  rather  like  tucking  poor  France  off  out  of  our  way.  And 
she 's  too  old  to  do  that  with,  and  it 's  an  exploded  idea  of  the 
third-rate  society  novels,  and  I  don't  half  like  it !  "  Euphemia 
said  it  pettishly,  as  people  say  things  that  it  is  no  use  to  say ; 
and  snapped  her  Iceland  wool,  as  she  pulled  the  thread  from 
the  middle  of  the  ball. 

"  You  should  n't  wind  your  wool  at  all,"  observed  Helen.  "  If 
you  had  '  dropped '  it,  you  would  n't  have  lost  your  thread." 

"  It  should  n't  have  been  either  hollow-wound  or  dropped," 
said  Euphemia,  "  but  loose-balled  over-hand.  Miss  Amman  did 
it  for  me." 

Miss  Ammah,  it  was  to  be  confessed,  was  not  always  along 
side  of  the  latest-accepted  ways ;  and  even  in  winding  wools 
there  is  a  latest-accepted. 


SO  QUEER  ! 


13 


CHAPTER  II. 

SO   QUEER  ! 

MEANWHILE,  France  had  put  on  her  hat,  and  taken  some  club- 
books  which  were  to  go  next  in  order  to  those  ladies,  and 
walked  over  to  the  Miss  Pyes'. 

The  Miss  Pyes  lived  in  a  Bird's  Nest.  They  had  taken  the 
name  and  the  notion  half  a  lifetime  ago  from  Miss  Bremer's 
famous  Hellevi  Hausgiebel,  and  had  been  carrying  it  out  ever 
since  "  The  Neighbors  "  was  translated,  and  they  —  in  their 
teens  and  twenties  —  had  read  it.  They  never  considered  the 
joke  of  its  being  called  the  Pyes'  Nest,  as  of  course  it  was  im 
mediately  ;  or,  if  they  thought  of  it,  it  was  of  an  appositeness, 
not  a  satire.  They  never  thought,  even,  of  the  appositeness  of 
their  own  names,  Christian  and  family.  I  suppose  they  never 
had  the  least  idea  how  they  were  literally  and  continually  illus 
trating  them.  Old-fashioned  names  of  aunts  and  grandmoth 
ers,  piously  perpetuated  —  really,  I  meant  no  play  on  that 
word  —  from  generation  to  generation,  and  kept  on  record  in 
the  columns  of  queer,  varied  hand-script  between  Malachi  and 
Matthew  in  the  family  Bible. 

Charity,  and  Barbara,  and  Margaret.  Diminished  to  Chat  and 
Bab  and  Mag  among  themselves,  and  even  when  they  spoke  of 
each  other ;  in  the  most  innocent  confidence  that  they  were  nev 
ertheless,  as  they  were  always  politely  addressed,  "  Miss  Pye," 
"  Miss  Barbara,"  and  "  Miss  Margaret "  when  spoken  of  in 
general  society  outside.  Also,  it  never  occurred  to  them  that 
"Mag"  and  "Pye"  by  any  chance,  got  hyphened  together  on 
common  lips,  having  no  occasion  to  get  hyphened  together  at 
home.  In  reality,  they  were  most  often  alluded  to  and  quoted 
under  the  formula  used  by  Miss  Margaret  hjerself,  —  who,  being 
the  youngest  of  the  sisters  and  the  most  active  member  of  so- 


14  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 

ciety,  at  once  represented,  gathered  for,  and  voiced  them  all,  — 
as  "Chat  and  Bab  and  I." 

Everything  bright,  curious,  entertaining, — in  things,  talk,  fact, 
—  was  collected  at  the  Pyes'  Nest.  Mag  did  most  of  the  col 
lecting,  as  I  have  said ;  then  they  all  fluttered  and  placed  and 
admired  sidewise,  and  chattered  and  babbled  over  the  straws 
and  sixpences,  objective  and  metaphorical,  that  she  had  picked 
-  up.  No  malice  about  these  last ;  only  they  thoroughly  discussed 
everything  in  their  bird  fashion,  and  came  to  their  conclusions; 
held  caucus  and  made  platform,  so  to  say,  and  were  ready 
with  their  verdict,  —  no  insignificant  one,  for  that  old  record 
between  Malachi  and  Matthew  was  thoroughly  honored  and 
clear-traced,  away  back  to  some  Pye  who  had  chanced  to  light 
on  the  Mayflower  or  the  Speedwell,  and  come  over  with  the 
Pilgrims. 

"We  all  think,  Chat  and  Bab  and  I."  The  summing-up 
was  circulated,  as  the  details  had  been  collected,  by  Miss  Mag, 
in  her  little  afternoon  hoppings  and  perchings  among  the  Pines 
and  about  the  Corner. 

So  to  take  the  social  bull  by  the  horns  was  to  start  a  fact, 
equipped  as  you  meant  it  to  be,  from  the  Pyes'  Nest. 

France  Everidge  fully  intended  now  to  go  to  Fellaiden.  The 
plan  had  begun  between  breakfast  and  after-dinner  to  look 
specifically  attractive  to  her.  It  had  also  begun  during  dinner 
discussions  to  lean  down,  as  it  were,  on  its  weak  side.  Miss 
Amman  was  not  there  to  keep  it  up,  and  the  weight  of  the  lit 
tle  family  doubts,  with  their  half  expression  —  a  reflex  before 
hand  of  the  "  way  it  might  seem  "  —  was  gathering,  unbalanced, 
like  freezing  mist  upon  the  windward  side  of  a  bough.  Nobody 
thought  of  actually  opposing  or  interdicting,  —  that  would  not 
be  done,  France  knew,  with  Miss  Amman's  already  virtually 
accepted  proposal, —  but  the  cold-water  spray  of  half-satisfac 
tion  was  flung  upon  it,  and  was  growing  solid,  particle  by  parti 
cle,  and  might  somehow  break  it  down.  To  help  that,  it  must 
have  broad  sunshine  let  upon  it.  France,  with  a  wise  instinct 
rather  than  any  deliberate  management,  held  her  peace  against 
the  ifs  and  buts,  took  all  the  previous  settlement  for  granted, 
and  remembered  her  errand  to  Miss  Chat  and  Bab. 


SO  QUEER  !  15 

We  are  going  off  to  Fellaiden  with  our  heroine,  so  it  is  pos 
sible  we  may  not,  in  the  whole  progress  of  our  tale,  whose  course 
cannot  at  the  outset  be  altogether  predicted,  "  peek  in  "  again 
so  leisurely  at  the  Pyes'  Nest.  The  more,  not  the  less,  reason 
that  we  should  take  a  discriminative  look  at  it  now,  as  France 
sits  there  with  the  three  ladies,  to  whom  the  world  has  begun 
to  look  elderly,  but  with  a  certain  curious  sense  of  themselves 
having  stopped  somewhere  a  score  of  years  ago  to  observe  from 
a  fixed  point  the  outside  process.  Now  and  then  Miss  Bab 
would  discern  in  a  mild  way  that  a  winter  influenza,  or  a  depress 
ing  summer  heat,  had  pulled  Chat  down  a  little,  and  that  she 
ought  to  have  the  wine  of  iron  for  a  while,  and  take  to  the  glass 
of  milk  at  lunch,  —  "  that  always  do  set  you  up  again,  you 
know  " ;  or  she  would  remark  anxiously,  even  of  Margaret,  who 
kept  about  on  her  feet,  and  brought  in  a  certain  open-air  bloom 
with  her  from  her  daily  outgoings,  that  her  color  was  n't  quite 
what  it  ought  to  be  in  the  mornings,  and  that  she  had  a  bad 
way  of  settling  down  into  her  pillow  that  "  slept  creases  into 
her  cheeks."  But  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  her  that  there 
was  anything  in  the  casual  falling  off,  or  the  paleness,  or  the 
delicate  arcs  each  side  her  nose  that  began  to  quote  Mag's 
prettiness  as  something  of  the  past  referred  to,  which  prescrip 
tion  or  admonition  could  not  reach,  as  they  had  done  in  the 
twenties  ;  or  that  the  years  had  anything  inexorable  to  do  with 
the  "want  of  accommodation"  that  the  oculist  told  her  of  in  her 
own  eyesight,  and  for  which  she  wore  a  ladylike  pair  of  glasses 
over  the  fine  work  that  had  done  the  mischief  "  that  winter  when 
she  embroidered  the  deep  borders  for  the  library  portiere." 

Chat's  hair  was  undeniably  gray,  in  lines, —  "  so  early  !  "  Bab 
would  say.  "  What  do  you  suppose  makes  people,  nowadays  1 " 
And  she  would  instance  Pauline  Talfrey,  "  snow-white,  at  thirty- 
three  !  "  In  all  this  there  was  the  sweetest  actual  unconscious 
ness.  They  told  their  ages  to  the  census  man  without  reserve ; 
nobody  else  asked.  And  between  times  they  really  forgot.  They 
just  went  on  living;  commented  on  the  changes  in  society  and 
in  the  town,  and  compared  the  things  of  to-day  with  those  of 
other  days,  identifying  themselves  always  with  to-day  and  with 
the  newest  change ;  importing  all  the  fresh  ideas  to  the  Bird's 


16  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

Nest,  and  really  keeping  themselves  wonderfully  fresh  by  virtue 
of  their  simple  obduracy  of  self-location. 

They  had  kept  house  together  since  they  were  indeed  young 
girls ;  and  their  early  orphanage  had  contributed  to  their  per 
sistent  feeling  of  being  somehow  still  young  things,  since  one 
always  thinks  of  orphans  so,  and  the  church  prayed  every  Sun 
day  for  them  as  "  fatherless  children." 

They  had  had  small  means  to  manage  at  first,  and  had  lived 
on  the  same  old  carpets,  darned  and  made  over,  till  Mag  said 
"  The  venerable  Brussels  in  the  best  parlor  was  all  twine  and 
tradition  "  ;  but  investments  had  been  turning  out  splendidly 
for  them  in  the  palmy  years  of  inflation,  and  they  had  remod 
elled  the  cottage  and  replaced  its  furnishings,  till  John  Pye  and 
his  Mag  would  never  have  known  the  Nest  again,  could  they 
have  bent  their  bright  wings  and  alighted  suddenly  in  it. 

The  low,  painted  wooden  mantel  in  the  sitting-room,  where 
Captain  Pye  —  for  he  had  been  a  retired  ship-master  —  used 
to  keep  his  briarwood  pipe  and  Indian  tobacco-jar,  and  where 
his  odd,  crumpled  slips  of  memorandum  and  calculation  — 
oftener  than  not  raggedly  torn  envelopes,  made  sacred  and  de- 
fendus  by  half  a  dozen  pencilled  figures  —  used  to  accumulate 
under  a  bronze  thermometer-stand  until  Mrs.  Pye  would  insist 
on  his  making  a  spring-cleaning  of  his  own  and  beginning 
again,  —  was  now  a  tall  Eastlake,  with  plenty  of  real  china 
ornaments  from  Canton  ;  a  whole  company  of  Russian  peasants 
and  pedlers  and  soldiers,  with  Emperor  Nicholas  First  on 
horseback  among  them,  in  painted  biscuit ;  recent  additions  of 
Japan  boxes  and  caddies  and  trays  ;  and  gay  fans,  like  open- 
winged  butterflies,  paired  at  the  corners.  Around  the  room,  three 
feet  and  a  half  tall  from  the  baseboard,  stood  great,  meditative, 
dull-colored  herons,  on  their  stilted  legs,  with  their  necks  and 
bills  looped  backward  upon  humpy  shoulders  and  forward  on 
feathery-fringed  breasts,  each  with  one  long-clawed  foot  hidden 
in  water-grasses,  and  the  other  set  on  a  broad,  floating,  weedy 
leaf.  There  were  pomegranates  —  scarlet  flowei-s  and  red-gold 
fruit  among  thorny  twisted  branches  —  above,  and  nothing 
between  but  a  pale-gray,  smooth  expanse,  that  might  stand  for 
pale-hot,  tropical  atmosphere ;  though  what  the  herons  had  to 


SO  QUEER  !  17 

do  with  this,  and  the  pomegranates  overhead,  might  be  won 
dered  at.  Miss  Ammah,  when  she  called,  had  said  that  the 
herons  ought  to  have  been  flamingoes ;  but  Miss  Margaret  as 
sured  her  eagerly  that  there  were  no  flamingoes  at  all  among 
the  dado  patterns.  They  all  came  in  regular  styles,  and  it  was 
no  use  to  try  to  carry  out  a  fancy  or  a  suitableness.  She  had 
got  the  pomegranate  border  because  Chat  and  Bab  said  the 
room  wanted  something  livening,  with  all  that  brown  and  gray 
and  dull  green. 

The  library,  which  they  once  used  and  spoke  of  simply  as  the 
front  parlor,  had  low  bookshelves  instead  of  the  dado,  quite  in 
the  authorized  style  ;  here  and  there  on  the  top  of  which  were 
the  orthodox  little  easels,  with  something  in  decorative  porce 
lain  or  cloisonnee  or  painted  tile  set  on  edge  upon  them,  in 
the  prevailing  charmingly  useless  way.  Whatever  nonsense 
was  anywhere  mixed  up,  however,  was  redeemed  by  the  great 
square  bay  on  the  southwest  side,  full  of  rioting  ivies  and  plumy 
ferns  and  bright  little  blossomy  plants  in  bracket-pots  and 
along  the  shelves ;  while  a  perfect  bank  of  splendid  calla  plants, 
their  tall  stems  and  shadowy,  winglike  leaves  like  ranks  of 
Blake's  strange  angels,  and  the  white  cups  that  had  begun  to 
unroll  at  Easter  not  yet  all  gone  from  among  them,  filled  up 
the  whole  floor-tier. 

"  Now  that 's  a  dado  worth  the  while  ! "  had  said  Miss  Am 
mah.  "  If  you  could  get  a  thing  painted  like  that,  for  a  room 
where  the  lilies  couldn't  be;  or  tufts  and  tangles  of  high  brakes 
and  ferns ;  or  flags,  with  the  brown  cat-tails.  But  those 
herons  and  storks  and  rhinoceroses  !  " 

"  Ok,  how  queer  you  are !  Chat  and  Bab  and  I  always  say 
so !  and  I  tell  you  they  don't  come  in  any  such  styles.  You 
must  take  what  other  people  have.  And  there  are  never  rhi 
noceroses  !  and  we  all  think  the  herons  are  beautiful.  So  old- 
fashioned,  you  know,  and  in  heraldry  !  " 

"  So  are  griffins  —  and  goats  —  and  unicorns  —  and  spotted 
dogs.  But  not  walking  around  the  wainscots." 

"  That 's  what  I  told  you,  and  I  should  n't  want  them  if  they 
were."  When,  of  course,  Miss  Ammah  gave  it  up. 

They  were  all  three  at  home,  sitting  in  the  library,  when 

2 


18  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 

France  Everidge  came  in ;  Chat  and  Bab,  as  usual,  one  with  her 
palette  and  tile,  and  the  other  with  her  macrame  cushion  ;  and 
Mag  just  returned  and  seated,  with  her  bonnet-strings  loosened, 
to  tell  what  she  had  seen,  what  heard,  and  what  adventured. 

"  I  met  Kennison,"  she  told  them,  "  and  thought  I  'd  better 
make  sure  of  him  before  the  hurry  came  on;  so  I  engaged  him 
to  calcomania  the  spare  bedroom." 

"  Mag ! "  cried  Bab  imploringly,  "  why  can't  you  learn  the 
difference  ]  I  hope  you  said  '  calcimine '  to  that  man.  And  the 
other  day  you  told  Ellen  Johnes  that  we  meant  to  have  a  par- 
quetrie  floor  laid  in  the  little  west  hall !  What  will  people  think? 
You  are  growing  a  perfect  Mrs.  Malaprop." 

"  I  don't  care,  that 's  right,  for  I  looked  it  out  afterward. 
They  're  both  French  ;  one  comes  from  the  floor,  '  parquet,'  and 
the  other  from  the  marking-ofF,  '  marqueter '  •  so  if  one  is  any 
more  real  and  regular  than  the  other,  it's  the  floor  itself, 
made  of  real  pieces :  the  other  might  be  painted  ;  and  you 
need  n't  have  put  your  eyebrows  into  isosceles  triangles  at  me, 
nor  Ellen  Johnes  have  got  '  marquetrie  '  into  her  next  sentence. 
I  scorned  to  say  a  word  !  " 

Here  France  was  shown  in ;  but  presently  Miss  Mag  went  on 
again,  addressing  her  news  primarily,  as  she  would  have  handed 
other  refreshment,  to  their  visitor. 

"And  I  met  Miss  Ammah  out  over  the  hill,  —  walking, 
way  over  to  the  Johneses.  We  all  think  she  's  so  queer,  you 
know,  don't  we?"  turning  to  Chat  and  Bab  with  the  last 
words  ;  and  Chat  and  Bab  nodded,  over  paint-brush  and  bobbin. 

"  I  asked  her  why  she  never  came  and  stayed  with  us.  What 
do  you  think  she  said  1  That  we  should  never  get  at  each  other. 
Four  minds  all  made  up,  she  said,  and  characters  settled.  Too 
much  lignum-vitse.  What  do  you  suppose  she  meant  ]  Too 
much  like  four  nine-pin  balls,  with  nothing  to  knock  down. 
I  'm  sure  we  're  always  knocking  down  !  Never  heard  such  a 
queer  person.  Said  she  liked  best  to  go  where  there  were  young 
folks,  —  characters  forming  and  coming  out.  She  could  get  and 
give  something.  Wanted  something  'fluent.'  As  if  we  were  n't 
fluent  enough,  —  Chat  and  Bab  and  I !  " 

"  Are  the  farmer  people  fluent  up  at  Fellaiden  1 "  put  in  Miss 
Bab. 


SO   QUEER  !  19 

"  That 's  what  I  asked  her,  and  she  told  me,  '  Very  much  so.' 
0,  you  can't  possibly  get  anything  out  of  Miss  Amman. 
Fluent  /" 

"  Did  you  go  to  Mr.  Brett's,  Mag  1 " 

"  Yes ;  and  they  're  coming  Thursday.  Hope  the  calcimine 
man  won't  come  too.  But  I  haven  't  got  through  about  Miss 
Ammah.  I  asked  her  if  there  were  any  young  persons  in  Fel- 
laiden  that  she  could  get  and  give  with.  She  said,  '  Yes,  a  few  ; 
and  that  there  would  be  one  more  this  summer,  for  a  young 
person  had  agreed  to  go  up  there  with  her. '  Who  on  earth  do 
you  suppose  1 " 

Miss  Mag  turned  again  toward  France,  but  France  was  not 
there.  During  this  last  speech,  she  had  moved  around  to  the 
elder  sister's  side  of  the  library-table,  and  was  watching  Miss 
Bab's  quick  knotting  of  the  soft  gray  twine. 

"  What  heaps  of  things  there  are  to  do  in  the  world ! "  she 
was  saying,  before  Miss  Mag  had  come  to  her  question.  "  And 
they  are  inventing  new  ones  all  the  time.  It 's  very  discourag 
ing  to  a  conscientious  person  !  " 

"  One  has  to  be  pretty  busy,"  said  Miss  Chat,  putting  a  hard, 
dark,  conventional  line  around  the  edge  of  a  leaf  in  two  flat 
shades  of  color,  "  to  keep  up  with  ideas." 

France  was  afraid  to  look  at  the  tile,  with  the  ragged  branch 
thrust  out  from  nowhere,  in  true  art  style,  across  one  side,  and 
the  funereal  bird,  solid  black  with  shadow,  though  sitting  there 
in  freest,  unobstructed  atmosphere.  It  was  too  funny ;  and 
France  amiably  endeavored  to  keep  the  fun  internal. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  gravely  and  queerly,  "  if  it 's  meet, 
right,  and  our  bounden  duty  to  try  to  do  it  all  1  Because  I  'm 
all  behindhand  in  negligences  and  ignorances  if  it  is.  And 
Clarence  Cook  and  the  art  papers  do  make  you  feel  as  if  they 
were  a  kind  of  law  and  gospel.  —  Did  you  hear  Mr.  Brett  last 
Sunday,  Miss  Margaret  ] " 

The  obvious  connecting  link  was  law  and  gospel,  and  the 
quotation  from  the  prayer-book.  If  there  was  another  connec 
tion,  France  kept  it,  and  whatever  earnestness  it  may  have  had, 
inwardly  to  herself,  with  her  fun. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  remember  particularly,"  said 
Miss  Mag. 


20  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 

France  did  not  preach  it  over  again.  She  was  not  given  to 
preaching  or  to  quotation  of  sacred  authority,  except  aslant, 
which  might  be  taken,  as  well  as  not,  for  mere  odd  levity.  But 
she  was  recalling  something  about  the  nearest  commandment 
being  the  way  of  escape  from  the  nearest  temptation ;  and 
about  being  busy  with  God's  things  being  a  safeguard  against 
getting  too  busy  with  the  things  of  the  world.  Under  her  non 
sense  and  her  oddity,  France  Everidge  was  unquestionably  be 
ginning  to  weigh  and  measure  things  in  some  rather  perplexing 
ways. 

"  You  like  Mr.  Brett  1 "  She  put  the  question  suddenly,  with 
the  consciousness  of  not  caring  to  be  asked  herself  about  what 
the  sermon  had  been. 

"  0  yes.  He  's  a  good  man  and  a  good  neighbor.  But  for  a 
clergyman,  —  well,  he  's  limited." 

"  I  suppose  we  can't  expect  to  get  an  «nlimited  good  man." 

"  France  !  "  with  a  volume  of  emphasis  and  dropping  inflec 
tion  on  the  vowel  sound  of  the  short  name.  "  You  're  as  queer 
as  Miss  Ammah,  every  bit."  And  Miss  Ammah  got  one  of  the 
explosive  falls  upon  the  first  "  A "  in  her  name.  "  Queerest 
girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  !  Wonder  what  you  '11  be  at  her  age, 
if  your  character  keeps  coming  out !  " 

France  laughed  as  she  got  up  to  go.  This  was  not  the  way 
she  had  meant  to  put  it  in  circulation,  but  she  put  it  now, 
upon  the  impulse,  as  it  came. 

"  Can't  tell  about  anything  so  far  off,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  'm  as 
likely  as  not  to  get  farther  on  at  present  in  the  same  way,  since 
I  'm  the  young  person  that  is  going  with  her  up  to  Fellaiden." 

She  spoke  slowly,  and  she  had  got  to  the  door  while  speak 
ing  ;  she  held  the  knob  in  her  hand,  and  only  paused  to  say 
good-by.  Miss  Mag  was  on  her  feet  with  surprise,  making  her 
way  toward  her,  as  if  she  would  have  had  her  back,  and  all  the 
whys  and  hows  out  of  her. 

"  My  !  What  for  ?  Do  tell  us  !  "  was  all  she  could  possibly 
say,  falling  into  the  proverbial  commonplaces,  as  they  first  fell 
into  speech. 

"  To  run  away  from  my  neglected  duties  among  the  savages 
who  have  n't  got  any.  Good-by  ! "  and  France  was  off. 


SO   QUEER  !  21 

She  walked  slowly  through  the  village,  on  the  other  side  of 
which  from  the  Pyes'  Nest  the  Everidges  lived.  She  met  Mr. 
Brett  walking  down,  and  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  him. 

"  Have  you  been  as  far  as  our  house  1 "  he  asked  kindly. 

"  Not  to-day.     I  have  only  been  to  the  Pyes'  "Nest." 

"  One  of  the  pleasantest  places  to  go  to.  How  pretty  they 
make  it !  "  said  the  minister. 

France  looked  curiously,  more  than  she  was  aware,  into  his 
eyes.  Undoubtedly  the  minister  was  limited.  He  had  preached 
a  sermon  last  Sunday,  grand  with  simple  truth  for  simple  liv 
ing  ;  believing  it  and  living  it  himself  from  his  heart.  How 
could  he  know,  though,  that  within  five  minutes  this  girl  had 
been  comparing  that  teaching  with  Miss  Chat's  painting  of 
absurdities  on  china,  and  Miss  Bab's  tying  twine  into  knots 
and  chains  for  table-fringe  ?  How  could  he  see  that  the  curious 
look  in  her  eyes  was  searching  for  something  that  would  tell 
her  how  much  of  life  was  meant  for  porcelain  and  macrame 
lace? 

The  Miss  Pyes  were  among  his  friendliest  parishioners ;  he 
never*  judged  personal  judgments;  he  had  had  pleasant  hours 
—  and  was  freshly  bidden  to  more  —  at  the  cottage,  which, 
perhaps,  he  had  a  little  scruple  about  smiling  at  under  its 
popular  name  of  the  Pyes'  Nest,  and  praised  the  more  unre 
servedly  in  consequence,  when  France  called  it  so. 

"  I  suppose  they  do  make  it  all  the  pleasanter  for  the  Bretts, 
and  for  other  people ;  even  the  fun  of  it.  I  suppose  there  's 
some  sort  of  a  mission  about  it,"  said  France  to  herself,  walk 
ing  up  the  hill. 


22  ODD,  OB,   EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

FARMYABD  AND   KITCHEN. 

FARMER  HEYBROOK'S  old  brown  mare  came  lungeing  up  the 
steep  hill,  pitch  after  pitch,  from  the  deep  hollow  like  a  crater, 
in  which,  viewed  from  above,  everything,  going  or  coming, 
seemed  to  drop  over  and  disappear,  and  thence  to  emerge  at 
either  side  in  almost  perpendicular  struggle,  like  a  creature 
slipped  into  a  pit-trap,  and  scrambling  desperately  for  dear  life, 
almost  against  possibility  or  expectation,  out  of  it. 

Israel,  the  farmer's  son,  was  driving.  You  could  see  —  that  is, 
if  you  had  been  by  Mother  Heybrook's  side,  you  could  have  seen, 
from  the  low-roofed,  wide  piazza  that  embraced  the  southwest 
angle  of  the  house,  and  from  which  rolled  away,  beneath,  the 
hill-country  landscape  of  three  counties  —  his  fresh  straw  hat 
showing  bright  in  the  sunlight  against  the  rock-shadows,  or 
between  the  young  green  boughs  of  the  maples,  as  old  Saltpetre 
tugged  up  to  the  top  of  one  waterbar  after  another,  and  on 
each  paused,  with  heaving  sides,  while  the  hat  measured  both 
halt  and  progress  by  its  own  stop,  higher  up  to  view,  against 
point  after  point  of  the  distance. 

Mother  Heybrook  watched  eagerly  till  something  more  was 
visible,  not  quite  so  tall  as  the  straw  hat  that  shone  bright  in 
the  sun.  Arrived  at  a  clearer  opening  and  a  more  topping 
pitch,  a  red  rose  and  a  fluttering  ribbon,  shoulder-high  to  the 
hat,  made  themselves  manifest. 

"  She  's  come  !  Sarell  's  come  !  and  I  'm  whole-footed  for  this 
summer  !"  said  "Ma'am"  joyfully  to  the  farmer,  sitting  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  on  the  red  settee-rocker. 

"  Expected  her,  did  n't  ye  1 "  asked  the  farmer  calmly. 

"  Well,  yes ;  but  you  can't  tell  how  things  '11  turn  out,  'specially 
at  Uncle  Amb's.  I  have  n't  ever  felt  so  sure  of  her,  come 


FARMYARD   AND   KITCHEN.  23 

spring,  since  she  took  up  there  for  the  winter.  'Tain't  easy  to 
get  much  of  anything  back  from  Uncle  Amb's,  you  know." 

"  I  know  ;  ye  need  n't  remind  me,"  said  Farmer  Heybrook. 
And  he  got  up  from  the  red  rocker  and  went  round  to  the  front 
of  the  house,  to  meet  Rael  and  take  the  mare  off  his  hands. 
Rael  was  wanted  to  go  after  some  stray  cattle.  Mrs.  Heybrook 
came  through  the  house  to  the  front  door. 

"  I  'm  right  down  glad  to  see  you,  Sarell,"  said  the  mistress, 
as  the  girl  jumped,  with  clean  aplomb,  from  the  wagon-wheel  to 
the  broad  doorstone. 

"  And  I  'm  up  and  down  glad  to  get  here,"  answered  the 
maid,  with  equal  cordiality ;  and  the  two  women,  hirer  and 
hired,  kissed  each  other,  as  friends  between  whom  there  was  no 
difference. 

"Wasn't  any  diffikilty  about  getting  away1?"  asked  Mrs. 
Heybrook,  in  Yankee  form  and  abbreviation. 

"Alwers  diffikilty,"  replied  Miss  Sarell  Gately;  "nothing's 
ever  quite  ready  to  come  to  the  p'int  up  there.  Mother  Pem- 
ble  's  awful  kicksy-wicksy,  and  Elviry  did  n't  scursely  know 
how  to  spare  me.  Land  !  I  do  hope  /  sha'n't  ever  live  to  be  an 
old  rag-baby !  Never  mind  my  box,  Rael.  I  '11  take  it  up 
myself." 

The  girl,  fresh  and  lively,  and  very  far  from  any  likelihood 
of  ever  being  an  old  rag-baby,  perceptibly  delighted  in  her 
freshness,  and  to  show  it,  contrastingly  to  her  words,  before 
the  face  of  the  young  man.  The  red  rose  in  her  hat-front 
marked,  with  flashing  movements,  her  gay  briskness  of  spirits, 
as  she  "took  the  stage,"  and  felt  herself  the  central  interest  in 
this  moment  of  her  arrival  and  welcome. 

"  Did  you  get  any  mail,  Israel  1 " 

"  I  'd  almost  forgot,"  answered  the  young  man,  speaking  for 
the  first  time,  and  putting  his  hand  in  the  deep  pocket  of  his 
loose  summer  coat,  just  as  he  had  been  turning  away ;  "  there  'a 
a  letter  from  Miss  Tredgold,  and  something,  I  guess,  from 
Hawksbury  way.  Old  Putteuham  is  always  prompt." 

"  And  so 's  Miss  Tredgold,"  said  his  mother  cheerily.  "  One  's 
a  good  set-off  to  the  other,  Rael." 

Rael  looked  at  her  as  if  he  thought  the  get-off,  to  most  of  the 


24  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

hindrances  and  hard  rubs,  was  only  secondarily  through  Miss 
Tredgold  or  anybody  else.  All  he  said  was,  seeing  that  Sarell 
had  gone  through  to  the  kitchen  for  a  look  at  old  familiar  cor 
ners,  —  "  I  'm  glad  you  've  got  your  help,  mother.  Now  be 
sure  you  let  Sarell  do  things.  I  '11  be  back  in  an  hour  or  so. 
Don't  hinder  supper,  I  shall  only  want  some  bread  and  milk," 
and  in  a  moment  more  he  was  over  the  Great-Mowing  wall,  and 
going  by  the  field-edge  inside  it,  down  under  the  brow  of  the 
beautiful  land  swell,  toward  the  oak  pastures  beyond. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  took  her  letters  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
put  on  her  spectacles,  that  lay  on  the  top  of  her  big  work- 
basket.  Sarell's  voice  sounded  already  beyond,  in  a  full,  joy 
ous  rendering  of  "  Hold  the  Fort,"  and  between  the  notes  was 
audible  the  energetic  clatter  of  dishes  with  which  she  was  set 
ting  the  family  table  in  the  cool  out-room.  She  was  taking  her 
place  and  her  work  without  preliminary,  proud,  with  a  pleasant 
ostentation,  of  her  full  familiarity  with  ways  and  things. 

"  Hold  the  Fort,"  sung  through,  gave  place  to  "  Only  an 
Armor-bearer,"  and  the  rafters  rang,  and  the  wide,  open  old 
farmhouse  was  full,  all  through,  of  the  untutored  music.  Mrs. 
Heybrook's  exclamation  of  astonishment  over  the  letter  from 
Boston  was  lost  in  the  tide  of  song,  and  the  good  lady  hushed 
herself  up,  with  a  second  thought,  and  did  not  repeat,  or  follow 
it  with  any  announcement.  "  Time  enough  to-morrow,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  I  don't  believe  Sarell  '11  more  than  half  like  it ; 
and  she's  so  high-spirited  to-night !"  and  she  put  the  folded 
sheet  into  the  envelope  again,  and  that  into  her  pocket,  as  she 
rose  to  set  the  Hawksbury  letter,  with  her  husband's  name 
upon  the  cover,  behind  the  brass  candlestick  on  the  high 
mantel. 

Then  she  called  Sarell,  and  led  her  through  the  house ;  showed 
her  the  new  frilled  curtains  in  the  best  parlor,  and  the  braided 
hall-mats  she  had  made  in  the  winter ;  the  new  spreads,  that 
she  had  "  pieced,"  in  the  bedrooms,  and  the  pink  puff  in  Miss 
Tredgold's  room. 

"  Don't  seem  as  if  you  had  left  anything  for  me,"  said  Sarell. 

"  0,  this  is  all  lezhure  work.  Now  we  've  got  to  take  hold 
together,  in  earnest,  and  make  things  go." 


FARMYARD  AND   KITCHEN.  25 

They  went  through  kitchen,  out-room,  and  butteries  together; 
then  out  to  the  front  porch  and  across  to  the  barn ;  Mrs.  Hey- 
brook  showing  Sarell  how  the  "menfolks"  had  made  everything 
neat  as  to  their  part,  at  odd  jobs  after  the  noon  "  baitings,"  and 
after  sundowns,  when  the  cows  were  milked  and  the  chickens 
were  in,  and  the  pigs  had  got  their  supper,  and  the  turkeys  had 
been  fed  in  the  back  dooryard,  as  had  to  be  done  to  "  wont " 
them  to  coming  home  nights. 

The  wide  grass  dooryard  had  been  raked  and  cleaned  of 
wind-blown  branches;  the  wagons  were  tidily  stowed  in  the 
sheds,  leaving  free  the  floor  of  the  south  barn,  where  Miss 
Tredgold  liked  to  sit  on  a  toss  of  hay,  and  enjoy  the  sweet  air, 
and  the  picture  of  the  hills  framed  in  by  the  doors  that  opened 
out  upon  the  great  mowing ;  and  the  little  corner  stairway  was 
swept  down  that  led  to  the  lofts,  where  also  she  liked  to  make 
a  still,  luxurious  retreat  among  the  huge,  fragrant  cushions  of 
the  mow. 

"  We  've  got  the  dooryard  to  sweep  over,  ourselves,"  said 
Mrs.  Heybrook,  coming  back  with  her  companion  toward  the 
front  porch.  "  I  never  call  it  done  till  that 's  done  ;  then  it 's 
as  fine  as  a  carpet.  We  '11  take  to  it  as  we  get  chances ;  it 's 
all  that 's  left  to  do,  and  they  —  Miss  Tredgold  won't  be  here 
for  a  day  or  two  yet.  Thursday  noon,  probably,  the  letter 
says." 

Between  the  "  they  "  that  had  slipped  unaware  from  her  lips 
and  the  finishing  of  her  communication,  Mrs.  Heybrook  had 
made  a  diversion  of  stepping  aside  to  pick  up  a  few  gray 
turkey-feathers  newly  scattered  on  the  clean  sward.  She  might 
have  been  going  to  say  anything  with  her  "  they,"  and  Sarell 
did  not  connect  it  with  the  announcement  concerning  Miss 
Tredgold. 

"  Why  not  take  right  hold  of  it  now  ? "  said  the  capable 
damsel.  "  There  's  near  an  hour  of  daylight  yet.  I  '11  fetch 
the  brooms.  I  know  where  you  keep  'em."  And  Sarell  was 
off,  across  the  end  stoop  into  the  out-room,  and  back  presently, 
with  her  dress  pinned  up  high  behind,  and  two  good  corn- 
brooms  in  her  hands. 

So,  while  the  distant  mountain-tops  turned  all  delicious  rose- 


26  ODD,  OB   EVEN  ? 

color,  and  then  royal  with  purple  mist,  and  then  dusk  with 
darkening  gray,  and  the  turkeys,  roosting  in  long  rows,  shoved 
and  fluttered  in  the  elm-boughs,  the  farm  wife  and  the  farm 
maiden  brushed  over  the  young,  close-growing  turf,  till  no 
beautiful  lawn,  cropped  every  day  by  a  mower,  could  be  fresher 
or  daintier  under  foot,  or  half  so  much  a  piece  of  the  real, 
generous,  green  world,  as  it  spread  out  there  in  soft  color  and 
speckless  distance  over  nearer  and  farther  slopes,  and  all  looked 
as  if  thrown  open  together,  inviting  the  footsteps,  —  one  free, 
clean-swept,  beautiful  carpet,  flung  in  grand  mile-breadths  across 
intervales  and  over  the  heaving  hills. 

The  menfolks  came  into  the  delayed  supper ;  and  Sarell, 
her  skirt  shaken  down  again,  and  all  rosy  herself  with  exercise 
and  gladness,  waited  on  them  with  the  milk-bowls  and  the 
great  plates  of  bread,  and  pie-pieces  and  doughnuts,  and  the 
sage  cheese,  fresh  cut  from  a  huge  creamy  round ;  and  she  was 
so  gay  that  Mrs.  Heybrook  felt  half  mean  at  not  telling  her 
right  off  to-night,  and  wholly  sure  that  it  would  be  a  shame 
to  tell  her  anything  that  might  throw  a  doubt  or  a  disappoint 
ment  over  the  summer-tirne  that  was  so  cheerily  and  heartily 
beginning. 

For  in  her  own  heart  it  was  a  least  bit  of  vexation  to  the 
good  woman  herself  that  a  new,  strange  city  boarder — a  young- 
lady  boarder — was  to  be  added  to  the  summer  family;  and 
she  was  in  no  haste  to  say  to  anybody  what  Miss  Tredgold 
said  in  the  letter  that  was  in  her  pocket,  of  the  young  friend, 
whom  she  only  put  into  a  postscript,  and  proposed  to  put  into 
the  northwest  bedroom,  that  opened,  slightly  partitioned,  from 
her  own,  and  was  never  otherwise  used  when  she  was  at  the 
farm. 

She  felt  a  little  consciousness  of  being  "  worked  "  in  secret,  — 
Mrs.  Heybrook  did,  —  and  that  this  had  added  somewhat  to 
the  effervescence  of  her  energy  as  she  swept  the  dooryard  so 
vigorously  with  Sarell,  astonishing  the  boys,  when  they  came 
up  across  the  lot,  with  their  smart  beginning.  Sarell,  for  her 
part,  evidently  enjoyed  making  nothing,  before  them,  of  this 
first  taking  up  of  her  share  of  the  labors  that  lay  at  her 
hand. 


FARMYARD   AND   KITCHEN.  27 

"Don't  you  ever  think  your  day's  work  done,  mother1?" 
Rael  had  asked.  He  was  always  taking  "  mother's "  part 
against  herself. 

And  Lynian  had  said,  as  he  shambled  in  his  overgrown  boy's 
fashion,  with  long,  strong  limbs,  across  the  yard-place  past  the 
women,  "  They  're  a  team,  those  two,  mother  and  Sarell ! 
We  're  hitched  up  now  for  all  summer ;  and  there  '11  be  no 
grass  growin'  under  their  heels  !  " 

Not  elegant  commendation ;  but  Sarell  was  glad  and  proud 
of  it,  although  it  was  only  Lyme  that  said  it. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  was  thinking  and  wondering,  then  and 
through  supper-time,  how  her  boys,  —  bright  fellows  and 
academy -bred,  and  far  enough  from  the  traditional  clodhopper- 
ism  which  real  New  England  farm-life  has  long  been  rising 
away  from,  although  Lyman  did  shamble  with  his  long  legs 
and  say  things  more  hill-flavored  than  society-toned,  —  how 
her  boys  would  come  and  go  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  in  the  sweat 
of  their  manly  labor,  with  brown  faces  and  earth-stained  hands, 
all  summer  through,  before  the  dainty  city  girl,  sitting  in  her 
muslin  frocks  to  watch  them,  as  she  watched  the  cows  coming 
home  or  lumbering  off  to  pasture,  or  the  awkward  turkeys 
fluttering  and  shuffling  into  the  great  elm-boughs  to  roost. 
She  did  not  know  what  a  bucolic  was,  but  she  did  not  want  her 
sons  to  act  one  three  months  long,  for  the  entertainment  or  the 
passive  observation  of  a  woman  of  their  own  age,  so  brought 
up,  probably,  as  to  look  on  farmers  and  their  bullocks  as  of  one 
herd  and  nature.  Yet  she  hoped  the  boys  would  come  in  at 
the  front  door  if  they  wanted  to.  She  would  not  have  them 
take  one  roundabout  turn  to  or  from  their  work,  or  even  put 
their  coats  on  when  they  toiled  up  the  steep  west  side-hill 
from  the  mowing,  in  full  sight  from  the  cool  piazza  all  the 
way. 

Moreover,  she  was  exercised  and  "  put  about  "  in  advance 
concerning  her  pantry,  now  that  she  knew  the  young  lady 
was  on  the  way.  Would  the  veal  roast  suit  her  for  a  dinner, 
or  ought  there  to  be  a  fowl  beside  ?  The  white  rooster  came 
into  her  head,  that  night,  after  she  had  laid  it  on  her  pillow,  and 
she  waked  Welcome  to  tell  him  that  they  must  be  sure  to 


28  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

"  ketch  and  kill  it  some  time  next  day."  Welcome's  grunt,  as 
he  turned  over,  had  conveyed  more  complex  meaning  than 
mere  assent.  They  had  tried  to  catch  and  kill  that  white 
rooster  before ;  and  next  morning  they  were  to  begin  hoeing 
the  big  south  cornfield,  half  a  mile  down  toward  the  river. 

Of  Sarell,  who  meanwhile  was  sleeping  deliciously  on  her 
springy  bed  of  fresh,  rustling  corn-husks,  in  the  little  kitchen 
attic,  with  the  end  gable-window  looking  right  out  into  a  cloud  of 
apple-blossoms  between  which  twinkled  the  far,  golden  stars, 
and  by  whose  low  sill  she  had  sat  for  half  an  hour  before  un 
dressing,  thinking  how  good  it  was  to  get  back  to  Hey  brook 
Farm  for  all  summer,  it  may  as  well  be  said  that,  so  far  at 
any  rate,  there  was  nothing  in  her  pleasure,  or  in  what  Mother 
Heybrook  instinctively  felt  would  be  a  damper  upon  it,  that 
has  to  do  with  the  ordinary  mechanism  of  a  novel,  or  the 
reader's  inevitable  forecast  of  how  things,  according  to  all  prece 
dent,  are  going  to  befall. 

Sarell  was  not  a  bit  in  love  with  handsome  Rael :  she  had 
good  common-sense  enough  to  know  that  it  would  be  a  hazard 
ous  investment  of  sentiment ;  for  Rael  Heybrook  was  "  'caderny 
learned,"  and  on  the  way,  through  all  his  rough  country  toil, 
to  be  in  a  profession  some  day,  and  a  gentleman ;  and  though 
Sarell  was  indeed  of  too  pure  republican  Yankee  strain  to 
allow  that  she  wasn't  "good  enough,"  in  a  certain  sense,  for 
anybody  or  anywhere,  she  could  feel  that  she  had  scarcely  that 
rapport  with  Rael,  or  that  relation  to  the  Heybrook  views  in 
general,  to  make  it  a  prudent  thing  for  her  to  set  her  mind  — 
or  her  hat  with  its  "  rose  enthroned" — deliberately  in  that 
direction.  None  the  less  did  she  enjoy,  in  the  frank,  pleasant, 
hearty  life  of  the  farmhouse,  being  the  one  young  woman  in  it ; 
having  for  a  brief  season  the  representation,  in  her  own  person, 
of  all  that  was  freshly  feminine,  bright,  smart,  housewifely, 
capable,  and  important  there.  A  woman  always  likes  to 
show  a  man  what  may  be  for  somebody,  though  she  have 
neither  wish  nor  hope  that  it  may  be  for  him.  She  enjoyed 
the  importance  of  her  arrival ;  the  complete  at-homeness  which 
she  reassumed  at  once,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  well-ordered, 
well-to-do  establishment.  She  had  a  pretty  part  to  play,  all 


FARMYARD    AND    KITCHEN.  29 

summer  long,  in  her  blithe,  buxom  way,  among  them.  And 
she  undoubtedly  would  have  liked  it  as  it  had  been  before,  to 
herself;  unshorn  of  precedence  by  any  other  and  different 
young  ladyhood,  unimpaired  by  comparison  with  another  and 
very  different  style.  She  was,  undoubtedly,  pleased  with  the 
sense  of  being  free  herself,  and  in  companionship  with  a  bright 
young  person  of  the  other  sex,  whom  she  liked  genially  and 
healthily,  and  who  was  free  also.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  — 
who  knows1?  —  she  might  have  made  up  her  mind  to  certain 
other  contingencies  which  had  begun  to  loom  already  elsewhere, 
she  might  hear  with  calmness  that  Israel  Heybrook  had  found 
and  chosen,  when  she  was  not  at  hand,  some  nice  girl  for  a 
wife ;  but  she  would  have  no  pleasure  in  standing  by  at  the 
choosing.  Not,  either,  that  all  this  ultimation  would  be  in  her 
mind  as  anywise  probable  from  the  advent  of  a  young-lady 
city  boarder  at  the  farm.  It  would  only  be  some  stranger  in 
the  "  first  young-lady  part  "  and  place  ;  and  she  had  not  "  taken 
the  stage"  to  give  way  in  the  second  scene  to  that. 

So  wise  Mrs.  Heybrook  let  her  have  her  welcome  and  her 
little  flourish  all  to  herself,  and  go  off  to  bed  to-night,  uncon 
scious.  It  would  be  better  to-morrow,  perhaps,  that  she  had 
so  installed  her,  and  could  then  bring  forward,  as  a  secondary 
point,  the  fact  reserved. 

The  first  practical  thing,  next  morning,  and  that  which 
would  bring  out  incidentally,  perhaps,  the  announcement  to 
Sarell,  was  the  catching  of  the  white  rooster.  Mrs.  Heybrook, 
after  Sarell  had  gone  up-stairs  last  night,  had  told  Rael  — 
standing  with  him  in  the  cool  back  porch  a  minute,  as  the 
mother  loved  to  do  with  her  boy  when  the  last  work  was  over  — 
the  import  of  Miss  Tredgold's  letter.  The  old  farmer  heard  it 
in  the  brief,  safe  interval  between  the  dropping  of  his  head 
upon  the  pillow  and  the  dropping  of  himself  into  dreams.  No 
chance,  then,  for  any  more  lengthened  objection  than  a  grunt ; 
and  afterward,  if  he  wanted  to  object,  which  Welcome  Heybrook 
never  did  want  to  do  if  he  could  help  it,  he  would  have  to 
begin  the  subject  again  on  purpose  himself. 

All  Israel  said  to  the  news  was,  "  Well,  it  'a  your  business, 
mother.  If  it's  satisfactory  to  you,  nothing  else  matters." 


30  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

But  her  feminine  clairvoyance  detected  the  undertone  of  re 
straint,  and  she  remembered  again  the  field  labors  and  the  hot 
days,  the  dust  and  the  sweat  of  the  brows,  the  shirt-sleeves  and 
the  coarse  trousers,  and  the  coming  up  the  hill  at  the  nooning. 
I  doubt  if  Israel  thought  of  one  of  these  things. 

While,  in  the  early  morning,  "mother"  was  putting  up  the 
dinner-pails  that  were  to  be  taken  to  the  far  field-work  that 
day,  the  farmer  was  fain  to  submit  to  the  housewifely  edict, 
and  make  one  more  raid  after  that  veritable  outlaw  and  guerilla, 
the  white  rooster. 

Israel,  the  tall,  blond-haired,  sober-faced  fellow,  wearing  his 
old  sun-scorched  straw  hat  in  his  princely  way  over  the  tossed 
locks,  deferred  also  to  his  mother's  will,  and  strode  gravely 
around  the  yard-place,  heading  the  bird  which  his  father,  with 
stoop  and  "  shoo  "  and  arms  outspread,  drove  fluttering  from 
one  side  to  the  other.  Lyman,  the  boy  of  eighteen,  tickled  with 
the  fun  and  the  mischief,  laughed  and  shouted  and  slyly  bore 
the  hunt  over  toward  the  barn.  Mrs.  Heybrook  stood  before 
the  porch,  and  called  nervously,  — 

"  He  '11  be  over  the  wall  into  the  gardin'  !  Look  out,  Rael ! 
He  '11  get  under  the  barn.  Don't  you  dare  to  let  him,  Lyman 
Heybrook!  Father!  keep  this  way  more,  and  Rael '11  have 
him  ! " 

Father  kept  this  way,  Lyman  made  a  rush,  the  white  rooster 
flew  screaming  over  Israel's  shoulder,  and  the  next  minute, 
scrambling  to  ground  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  feathers,  scuttled 
tumultuously  under  the  sill  of  the  barn  and  disappeared. 

"  Well,  you  are  smart  menfolks,  —  three  of  you  ! "  ejaculated 
Mother  Heybrook,  laughing  too,  with  all  her  might,  as  she  was 
apt  to  do  if  ever  she  tried  to  scold.  "  You  've  done  it  now. 
You  won't  get  him  this  time,  and  you  may  as  well  clear  off  to 
your  hoeing.  Lyman,  let  alone  poking  !  you  need  n't  pertend ; 
he 's  just  where  you  meant  he  should  be." 

But  Lyman  went  into  the  barn,  and  took  down  his  gun.  He 
was  n't  going  to  lose  the  excuse  for  a  shot. 

"  That 's  what  you  wanted,  is  it  1  Why  could  n't  you  shoot 
him  flying,  then  ?  0  you  goose  !  Stop  !  how  '11  you  get  him  out 
again  when  he  is  shot  1 " 


FARMYARD   AND   KITCHEN.  31 

The  gun  went  off  at  the  same  moment  that  Israel,  at  her 
elbow,  said  quietly,  "  He  don't  mean  to  kill  him,  mother. 
He  '11  only  scare  him  out  the  other  side." 

But  nothing  came  out  the  other  side.  The  rooster  was  either 
dead  or  "  pertending."  Now  they  had  lost  a  good  half  hour, 
Mother  Heybrook  said,  "  Well,  it  don't  signify  so  terrible  much, 
to-day.  But  you  must  get  him  to-night  or  to-morrow.  She  '11 
have  to  make  out  with  the  veal,  first  time." 

"  She  ]  which  1 "  asked  Israel,  stopping  with  his  hoe  over  his 
shoulder.  Somehow,  the  two  words,  with  the  interrogation 
after  each,  carried  whole  volumes  of  exception  to  his  mother's 
unaccustomed  worry  and  the  evident  exciting  cause. 

"  Why,  the  young  one,  of  course.  I  know  what  '11  satisfy 
Miss  Tredgold." 

"  Don't  let  that  young  woman  give  you  double  work  or 
double  thinking,  all  summer,  mother,"  Israel  said,  with  kind 
authority,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes. 

Women  like  to  be  commanded  for  kindness'  sake,  and  espe 
cially  does  a  mother,  by  her  grown-up  son.  "  He  's  a  good 
boy,"  Mrs.  Heybrook  spoke  aloud,  to  herself,  as  she  turned  in 
at  the  porchway,  "  if  he  did  n't  ketch  the  rooster.  And  he 
would  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that  Lyme,  too."  The  twinkle  in 
her  eye  told  that  she  was  proud  of  "  that  Lyme "  and  of  his 
pranks,  also. 

Sarell  was  washing  dishes  at  the  kitchen  sink.  The  window 
over  it  looked  straight  forth,  through  twists  of  grapevines,  upon 
the  scene  of  action.  It  was  a  marvellous  lightener,  in  double 
sense,  that  summer  window,  to  the  homely  toil.  Sarell  was  an 
courant,  and  as  good  as  participant,  in  all  the  comings  and 
goings  and  small  excitements  of  the  house-yard.  She  clattered 
her  dishes  like  cymbals  of  triumph,  by  no  means  loth  or  failing 
so  to  sound  forth  her  achieving  smartness ;  and  her  laugh  rang 
out  high  and  hearty  at  the  white  rooster's  clumsy  but  success 
ful  tactics,  and  the  menfolks'  discomfiture. 

"See,"  Mrs.  Heybrook  said,  meditatively,  coming  in,  "to 
day  's  Wednesday.  That  cretur  ought  to  be  kep'  over  a  day, 
certain,  or  he  '11  be  as  tough  as  Gibraltar.  I  'd  have  had  a 
chicken-pie  of  him  to-morrow,  if  they  'd  only  made  out  to  get 


32  ODD,  OR    EVEN  ? 

him.  But  we  '11  boil  him,  with  a  nice  dish  of  greens,  Friday. 
Miss  Tredgold  's  great  for  early  greens,  and  the  young  one  '11 
like  my  butter-cream  sauce,  I  '11  engage.  Well,  they  must  n't 
chase  him  under  the  barn  again,  that 's  all ;  and,  too,  the  un- 
derpinnin'  of  that  barn  ought  to  be  seen  to  ;  the  hens  steal  their 
nests  there,  and  everything.  It 's  a  regular  trap." 

"  /  could  'a  got  that  rooster,  Mis'  Heybrook,"  said  capable 
Sarell.  "  And  I  '11  have  him  yet,  before  them  three  is  back 
again,  if  you  won't  let  on.  But  who  's  the  young  one  1 " 

"  I  did  n't  know  there  was  any,  myself,  till  last  night ;  and  I 
thought  I  wouldn't  say  anything  just  then,"  answered  Mrs. 
Heybrook,  breaking  it  gently,  even  now.  "  She  's  coming  up 
with  Miss  Tredgold,  and  she  '11  have  the  little  northwest  bed 
room.  I  donno 's  she'll  make  much  differ'uce,  but  'twas  n't 
what  I  was  thinking  of.  Perhaps  that's  just  as  well,  though  ; 
for  I  might  n't  have  thought  favorable,  and  I  should  n't  like  to 
refuse  Miss  Tredgold,  neither." 

"  0,  well,"  answered  Sarell  encouragingly,  "  perhaps  she 's 
old  enough  not  to  be  under  foot  everywhere ;  and  I  presume 
she  's  been  learnt  how  to  behave." 

"  Land's  sake,  Sarell  !  she  's  a  young  lady  !  Under  foot  ! 
She  's  more  likely  to  be  way  up  overhead  —  of  all  our  ways. 
That 's  what  I  'm  most  afraid  of.  These  young  folks  have  n't 
got  the  consideration  of  women  like  Miss  Tredgold." 

Mother  Heybrook  had  done  it  now.  She  had  chased  her 
rooster  under  the  barn.  So,  like  Lyme,  she  made  haste  to  fire 
a  shot  after  him.  "  But  there  !  what 's  the  use  of  borrowin' 
trouble  1  An'  I  don't.  It  don't  amount  to  anything,  any  way ; 
and  Miss  Tredgold  is  considerate,  and  she  knows  what  she  's 
about.  She  would  n't  bring  anybody  that  would  be  highflown 
or  diffikilt." 

If  the  newcomer  should  be  "  highflown  or  diffikilt "  enough 
to  keep  quite  out  of  Sarell's  own  sphere  and  ways,  —  that  is,  out 
of  the  sphere  and  ways  of  the  whole  Heybrook  household,  — 
probably  the  country  maiden  might  not  care,  or  be  disturbed. 
The  slight  shade  that  crossed  her  cheerful  face  at  the  hearing 
was  not  the  forecast  of  something  that  was  to  be  quite  high  and 
distant,  but  rather  of  something  that  might  come  down  near 


FARMYARD   AND  KITCHEN.  33 

enough  to  get  between  her  and  her  sunlight.  But  Sarell  was 
not  of  the  sort  that  borrows  trouble,  either ;  and  she  scorned  to 
show  a  jealousy  or  disturbance. 

'"  I  presume  she 's  learnt  how  to  behave,"  she  reiterated, 
changing  only  from  the  passive  to  the  active  form  of  the  verb. 
The  phrase,  she  thought,  applied  otherwise  as  well  to  nineteen 
as  to  nine. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  laughed.  "  It 's  hard  getting  round  you,  Sarell," 
she  said.  "  Now  if  you  can  only  get  round  that  white  rooster." 

And  the  two  women  went  out  for  a  reconnoissance.  and  to 
construct  a  plan  of  campaign.  It  was  a  good  diversion  from 
the  summer-boarder  subject.  Sarell  was  queen  in  the  farm 
yard,  and  in  the  kitchen  among  the  household  regalia;  her 
mopstick  was  sceptre,  her  fresh  working  apron,  with  bib  and 
strap,  was  ribbon  and  order  :  none  could  divest  or  depose  her. 
Innermost  is  highest ;  behind  the  scenes  is  place  and  privilege ; 
every  shop-girl  knows  that,  dealing  sublimely  across  her  coun 
ter  with  the  canaille  of  purchasers.  No  mere  "  boarder"  could 
interfere  with  Sarell  in  her  established  centrality,  or  get  the 
better  of  her  from  the  outside  line.  She  felt  it,  and  reassured 
herself,  going  forth  with  high  intent  to  get  the  better  of  the 
menfolks. 

The  menfolks  —  the  "  three  of  'em,"  as  they  were  always 
numerically  reproached  when  a  chore  waited  or  a  horse  or  fowl 
evaded  —  came  back  to  the  hunt  at  night,  having  already  kept 
a  searching  lookout  through  the  day-intervals,  at  the  nooning, 
and  in  errands  to  the  house  or  barns.  But  no  rooster  was 
forthcoming,  even  to  roost. 

Rael  wondered,  and  peered  into  corn-barn  and  mangers  and 
shed-corners,  as  he  went  about,  in  his  usual  sedate  way,  with 
the  feeding  of  the  creatures  and  the  letting  in  and  milking  of 
the  cows  that  stood  at  the  head  of  the  lane,  looking  over 
wall  and  barplace  into  their  yard.  Lyme  ransacked  loft  and 
granaiy,  and  shied  stones  into  the  darkness  under  the  big  barn. 
The  old  farmer  kept  up  a  general  survey  of  earth  and  air,  wan 
dering  around  the  premises  on  the  "expectant  system,"  ready 
to  pounce  upon  the  first  symptom  of  emergence  anywhere,  but 
lost  in  the  wide  maze  of  possibilities  in  which  the  "  clear  tor- 

3 


34  ODD,  OB   EVEN  ? 

ment "  had  taken  refuge.  At  least  five  times  he  had  looked 
hopelessly  into  the  kitchen,  to  tell  "  ma'am  "  and  Sarell  that  it 
was  "  ouaccountable,  and  kept  gittin'  more  so." 

"  Of  course  he  's  somewhere"  said  Sarell,  with  merciless  en 
couragement. 

"It's  most  too  bad,"  mother  would  whisper;  especially  re- 
lentful  when  Rael  came  in  with  the  milk,  and  said  it  was  too 
bad  for  her  to  be  disappointed,  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  old  fel 
low  either  really  had  been  shot,  or  had  got  clear  away  off  the 
farm  altogether.  But  still  she  did  not  "  let  on  "  or  let  up. 

"  Of  course  he 's  shot,"  said  Lyme,  reporting  in  his  turn. 
"  That  little  rifle  of  mine  knows  its  way  like  a  fetcher  dog." 

"  Then  how  do  you  expect  to  get  him  1 "  asked  his  mother, 
hardened  again  by  the  boy's  conceit. 

It  lasted  till  dark,  and  it  began  again  in  the  morning.  It 
was  an  exciting  interest  now :  the  true  spirit  of  the  chase  was 
up ;  and  "  menfolks  "  will  spend  a  whole  day  in  chasing  a  rat, 
if  once  that  aboriginal  instinct  takes  possession. 

Lyme  was  up  at  daylight,  rushing  and  diving  about  like  a 
baffled  hound ;  the  others  came  later  and  quieter,  but  were  at 
it  for  a  good  half  hour  before  they  called  Lyman  off, —  as  if  he 
alone  represented  the  boy  element  among  them, —  and  all  went 
afield  for  their  "  sunrise  spell." 

At  breakfast  the  women  were  ominously  silent,  as  if  the  fun 
were  pretty  well  over  for  them,  and  the  difficulties  of  the  larder 
remained  solemnly  to  be  met.  The  "  three  of  'em  "  went  off, 
puzzled,  reluctant,  half  exasperated  and  half  sheepish  at  their 
failure. 

Then  Sarell  and  the  mother  had  their  laugh  out ;  and  the 
mother  laughed  till  she  cried,  which  was  not  all  from  the  laugh 
ing  either.  Those  three  great  farmer  fellows  had  been  so 
persevering  and  so  patient,  after  all !  But  Sarell  was  only  one- 
and-twenty.  She  had  not  begun  yet  to  have  too  much  compas 
sion  on  the  menfolks. 

It  seemed  to  me  to  be  well  that  you  should  have  this  intro 
ductory  glimpse  of  the  Heybrooks  by  themselves,  before  the 
summer  boarders  came,  and  the  little  piece  of  the  history  of 
France,  that  I  have  taken  in  hand  to  write  about,  began. 


POLITE  TO   A   BUTTERFLY.  35 


CHAPTER   IV. 

POLITE   TO  A   BUTTERFLY. 

IT  was  chill  among  the  mountains  the  next  morning  after 
Miss  Ammah  and  France  had  come.  There  was  a  great  fog 
slowly  rolling  down  between  the  hills  from  north  to  south, 
hanging  above  the  distant  river  course.  That  was  a  sign  of 
bright  weather  presently.  When  the  fog  rolled  up,  rain  came. 

Miss  Ammah  went  out  into  the  kitchen  after  breakfast,  to 
warm  her  slippered  feet  at  Mrs.  Heybrook's  shining  stove. 
France  stood  in  the  doorway,  not  yet  quite  free  of  the  penetra 
lia,  like  Miss  Ammah.  Something  of  a  savory  smell  was  boiling 
and  steaming  deliciously  over  the  fire.  Israel  Heybrook  was 
just  beyond  in  the  stoop,  whence  a  low  window  opened  over  the 
kitchen  dresser,  putting  some  small  repair  to  a  farm  tool.  Mrs. 
Heybrook  called  to  him. 

"  How  is  it  about  that  rooster,  Raell" 

"  Well,  mother,  it 's  a  kind  of  ridiculous  thing,  but  I  guess 
we'll  have  to  give  him  up.  Unless  Lyme  hit  him  and  he's 
dead  under  the  barn,  there  don't  seem  to  be  any  track  of  him." 

"You  're  sure  you  looked  everywhere  last  night?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  everywhere  that  was  probable." 

"  And  this  morning  1 " 

"This  morning  Lyme  has  been  hunting  everywhere  that 
was  improbable.  Father  says  we  must  take  lip  some  boards  of 
the  barn  floor.  It  won't  do  to  leave  him  there." 

Rael  was  standing  with  his  back  half  turned  against  the 
window.  He  could  not  see  the  energetic  winks  his  mother 
gave  Miss  Tredgold,  nor  that  lady's  vain  efforts  to  look  grave 
and  unconcerned. 

"Do  you  think  you  would  know  him  if  you  saw  him,  Raell" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mother  1    What 's  up  1 " 


36  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

"  Look  here." 

Rael  leaned  in  at  the  window  and  looked.  Mrs.  Heybrook 
lifted  the  cover  of  the  big  pot,  and  thrust  her  meat-fork  in. 

"  Is  that  anything  like  him?"  and  she  held  up,  dripping  and 
steaming,  the  clean-dressed,  half-cooked  body  of  a  fowl,  wings 
and  legs  neatly  skewered  and  tied  down.  "  He  won't  fly  off 
over  your  shoulder  this  time,  Rael." 

"  Did  he  fly  in  there  1 "  asked  cool  Rael. 

"  No,  sir  !  It  took  the  women, —  Sarell  and  I.  We  drove  him 
into  the  barn." 

Lyman  came  in  through  the  shed,  looking  for  the  tool.  "  Not 
done  yet,  Rael  ] "  he  began,  in  a  wondering  way.  "  What  'r  ye 
after?"  Then  he  caught  his  mother's  words  across  his  own, 
glanced  in  over  Israel's  shoulder,  and  took  in  the  situation. 
"  Wahl,"  he  articulated,  affecting  his  slowest  Yankee  drawl,  that 
he  knew  perfectly  well  to  do  without,  "  we  air  done  then, 
—  rooster 'n  all.  When  did  it  take  place,  Mis'  Heybrook]" 

"  Yesterday  mornin',  jest  after  the  doctor  give  him  up  and 
went  away." 

Lyman  was  a  natural  practitioner  for  any  ailing  live-stock  on 
the  farm,  and  had  a  strong  idea  of  a  medical  profession,  so  he 
was  already  brevetted  "doctor"  in  home  speech. 

"  And  we  hunting  him  all  noontime  an'  after  sundown,  as 
long  as  we  could  n't  see !  I  guess  I  'd  as  good  go  stop  father 
teai-ing  up  the  whole  barn  floor.  Mis'  Heybrook,  you  're  a  mas 
terpiece  ! " 

"That's  the  way  my  boys  take  a  joke,"  said  Mrs.  Heybrook 
proudly,  as  the  two  marched  off. 

Some  suggestions  like  these  rose  unexpressed  through  France 
Everidge's  mind,  as  she  looked  on,  diverted,  at  the  little 
scene :  — 

"  Not  elegant  banter ;  a  homely  joke  enough  ;  but  how  bright 
and  good-natured  they  are  !  I  wonder  if  the  main  thing  in  it 
is  n't  as  good  human  as  the  politest  clever  chaff1?  And  how 
handsome  that  grave,  proud  Israel  is  !  " 

On  his  part,  Israel  never  once  looked  at  the  doorway  oppo 
site  his  window,  where  the  girl's  figure  stood  against  the  farther 
light,  complete  in  prettiness,  from  the  high-puffed  hair  to  the 


POLITE   TO   A   BUTTERFLY.  37 

fluted  ruffle  of  the  morning-dress  under  which  the  shoe-tips  hid 
and  peeped.  Perhaps  there  was  just  a  suffix  to  France's  thought 
as  she  walked  away  in  her  own  direction  :  "  Nice-mannered  to 
his  mother.  I  wonder  he  has  n't  a  little  more  manner,  or 
notice,  or  something,  for  other  people  !  " 

That  night,  just  after  sundown,  she  looked  from  her  north 
west  window  at  the  red-gold  of  the  sky,  through  the  maple 
leaves.  The  great  boughs  reached  across  to  the  lintel,  over  the 
wide,  low  piazza-roof.  An  idea  came  to  her  mind.  In  a  minute 
she  and  a  big,  puffy  chair-cushion  were  out  upon  the  shingles. 
She  put  the  cushion  down  at  the  very  eaves,  where,  seating 
herself,  she  could  almost  lean  against  the  huge  round,  trunk 
that  reared  up  .straight  beside  her.  "  I  '11  sit  here  every  day," 
she  said  in  her  mind,  gazing  delightedly  through  the  wonderful 
fret  of  the  leafy  lattice  to  the  golden,  gleaming  distance,  as  into 
the  very  chamber  of  the  sun.  Everything  else  was  framed 
out ;  this  only,  in. 

But  sound  was  not  framed  out.  Rael  and  his  mother  came 
into  the  piazza  beneath.  The  milking  and  the  milk-straining 
were  over,  and  their  day's  work  was  done.  Lymau  and  Miss 
Amman  had  driven  to  the  village  for  the  mail. 

"  It  ain't  a  going  to  cross  you,  is  it,  Rael,  having  this  young 
lady  here  ? " 

"  Me  ]  No,  indeed.  What  is  it  to  me  1  It  crosses  me  if 
you  're  to.be  put  about.  I  don't  want  to  see  you  waiting  and 
fetching  for  a  girl." 

"Is  that  it  7"  and  Mrs.  Heybrook's  tone  lifted  so  that  you 
could  hear  in  it  how  her  face  lifted.  "  I  thought  you  seemed 
shy  of  her, —  as  if  it  was  going  to  be  kind  of  awkward  for  you, 
maybe."  Mrs.  Heybrook  slurred  the  second  "w"  slightly  in  the 
"  awkward  " ;  but  we  won't  be  particular  about  that. 

Israel  laughed  out.  "Awkward  for  me,  mother?  I  don't 
mind  her  any  more  than  I  would  a  butterfly  on  a  mullein-stalk  !  " 

Mrs.  Heybrook  laughed  too.  "  Then  we  won't  go  on  worry 
ing  about  each  other,"  she  said.  "  It 's  no  put-about  to  me,  and 
you  need  n't  think  it.  I  like  to  see  something  young  round ;  a 
girl,  you  know."  And  a  sigh  came  gently  with  the  laugh,  for 


38  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

there  had  been  only  one  sister  for  her  boys,  and  she  had  died  a 
baby. 

"  I  think  you  might  be  a  little  polite  to  her,  Rael.  She  may 
get  homesick.  And  I  don-'t  think  she  's  stuck  up,  —  not  a 
mite." 

"  Have  n't  I  been  polite  ]  Well,  there  has  n't  been  much 
time  yet,  has  there  1 " 

How  thankful  France  was  to  hear  Miss  Ammah  alighting 
from  the  chaise  upon  the  far  end  of  the  piazza !  She  had  not 
dared  to  move,  to  walk  over  those  crisp-sounding  shingles  to  her 
window  again.  She  was  tingling  with  anger  against  herself  for 
her  literal,  involuntary  eavesdropping.  In  the  bustle  of  Miss 
Amman's  walking  up  underneath,  and  their  mingled  voices,  she 
crept  back  into  her  room. 

But  would  she  "  sit  there  every  day "  1  And  should  Mr. 
Israel  Heybrook  be  "  polite "  to  her  ]  She  thought  an  em 
phatic  negative  to  both  questions. 

She  busied  herself  about  her  room,  finishing  some  of  her 
unpacking  which  she  had  intended  to  leave  till  the  morning. 
She  chose  to  be  busy  when  Miss  Ammah  came  up  to  put  away 
some  heavy  wrap  and  take  a  light  shawl  from  her  closet. 

Miss  Ammah  said  the  sunset  was  lovely  among  the  hills, 
from  the  piazza ;  but  France  had  been  enjoying  it,  and  had 
these  things  to  make  tidy  now,  and  thought  she  should  go  to 
bed  early  to-night,  and  watch  the  sunset  from  the  roof-window. 
Then  a  little  compunction  seized  her  at  leaving  her  elderly 
friend  so,  this  first  established  evening,  and  she  added,  with  a 
very  sweet  quickness,  — "  if  you  don't  mind,  dear  Miss 
Ammah  ] " 

"  Why  should  I,  child  ]  We  can't  get  far  out  of  each  other's 
company  up  here,  any  more  than  in  a  ship  at  sea.  And  there 's 
Mother  Heybrook  expecting  her  good  long  talk,  to-night.  Settle 
yourself,  and  go  to  sleep  as  the  light  goes.  I  often  watch  it  out 
so,  over  the  hills,  and  the  very  next  wink  I  'm  conscious  of,  it 's 
streaking  in  again  from  the  east  room,  across  the  hall." 

On  Saturday,  they  went  over  the  oak  pasture  into  the  upland 
woodlot,  taking  their  luncheon  with  them  ;  and  in  the  sweet- 
breathing  solitude,  among  the  ferns  and  the  great  tree-shadows, 


POLITE   TO   A  BUTTERFLY.  39 

France  forgot  -what  sort  of  link  there  was  for  her  between  this 
and  any  world  of  people.  It  was  just  enough  for  her  that  this 
one  day  had  been  made,  —  right  here,  and  in  such  fashion,  — 
and  that  she  was  living  it.  It  might  have  been  one  of  the  first 
days,  when  there  was  only  the  evening  and  the  morning,  and 
the  word  of  the  Lord  in  them ;  and  the  human  story  in  the 
earth,  with  the  daily  complication  and  the  news  of  it,  had  not 
begun  to  be. 

It  was  not  till  the  next  morning  —  Sunday  —  that  there 
came  occasion  for  any  real  contact  of  her  living  with  that  of  the 
farm  people ;  any  question  of  where  her  place  should  be,  and 
how  she  should  take  it. 

She  was  dressed  for  church,  whither  she  had  assented  to 
going,  of  course,  and  had  not  asked  how,  with  Miss  Amman ; 
and  she  was  sitting  ready,  in  a  fresh,  pretty,  summer  costume, 
by  Miss  Ammah's  window,  while  that  lady  tied  her  bonnet  and 
put  on  her  black  lace  shawl. 

Two  vehicles  came  down  from  the  barn  to  the  dooryard,  over 
the  grass  sward  that  crept  close  to  the  threshold. 

"  Country  residences  "  set  the  country  off  at  arm's  length, 
with  their  gravelled  drives  and  turnways,  and  their  stately 
porte-cocheres.  Farmhouses  sit  right  down  in  the  midst  of 
beauty,  and  let  it  cling  close  and  sweet.  They  displace  noth 
ing  that  a  house  can  help  displacing. 

France  was  delighted  at  the  noiseless  wheeling  up  over 
this  soft  outside  carpet.  It  was  so  Sunday-like  and  still ;  to 
day,  especially,  with  all  the  rest  of  the  blessed  silences. 

One  carriage  was  an  ancient,  rusty,  one-seated,  farmer's  open 
wagon,  to  which  old  Saltpetre  was  harnessed.  When  they 
went  down  stairs  at  Mother  Heybrook's  siimmons,  it  appeared 
that  the  good  lady  herself  was  to  drive  this,  Miss  Tredgold 
accompanying.  The  other  was  a  sufficiently  plain,  but  modern 
buggy,  open  also,  drawn  by  the  "  colt,"  who  was  twelve  years 
old,  Saltpetre  being  eighteen.  France  found  that  she  was  to  be 
taken  on  this,  with  Israel  for  her  driver.  Of  course  she  made 
sign  neither  of  notice  or  objection.  It  was  her  first  opportunity 
for  letting,  or  not  letting,  Mr.  Israel  Heybrook  be  "  polite." 

Israel  kept  her  dress  from  the  wheel  as  he  handed  her  in, 


40  ODD,  OK   EVEN  ? 

and  spread  a  checked  duster  across  her  lap  when  she  was 
seated,  as  quietly  and  nicely  as  any  young  Bostonian  of  the 
third  hill  could  have  done  ;  then  he  silently  took  his  place  by 
her  side. 

France  took  the  thing  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  said  "  Thank 
you,"  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  for  five  minutes  after,  as  they 
slowly  climbed  one  steep  ridge  after  another  of  the  long  ascend 
ing  road  said  nothing,  also  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Israel  could  keep  his  peace  without  feeling  it  in  his  feet  or 
his  elbows.  He  held  the  reins  without  a  fidget,  his  broad, 
handsome,  sunburnt  hand  resting,  gloveless,  upon  his  knee. 
France,  after  they  had  attained  the  third  ridgepole,  felt  the 
stiffness,  and  that  it  was  her  place  to  break  it. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  Centre  1 "  she  inquired. 

"  A  long  mile,"  Israel  answered. 

Then  they  rode  on  and  said  nothing  for  three  ridgepoles  more. 

"  Don't  your  horses  ever  refuse  these  tremendous  pitches  1 " 
France  asked  now. 

"  It  would  be  something  like  refusing  their  existence,"  he 
replied ;  and  a  quiet  smile  just  showed  the  edges  of  some 
splendid  teeth.  "  They  don't  know  anything  but  hills.  Are 
you  afraid  ? " 

This  was  a  long  speech,  longer  than  she  had  asked  for.  She 
was  certainly  letting  him  get  too  polite.  She  simply  said 
"  No,"  and  it  ended  again. 

I  suppose  she  would  not  have  spoken  further  until  she  said 
"Thank  you"  at  the  church  door  as  he  handed  her  out,  except  that 
she  forgot  for  the  instant  he  was  there  to  speak  to  when,  at  the 
topmost  brow  of  all,  they  turned  and  bore  around  upon  a  long 
crest  line,  whence  the  road  wound  downward  presently  toward 
the  depth  of  a  glorious  basin,  whose  green  slopes  rose  from  its 
vast  round  on  every  side  in  beautiful,  gradual  swells  of  farm, 
fields,  and  woodland,  and  she  caught  the  sudden  sight  of  all  this, 
and  of  the  little  centre  village,  with  its  white  spire  lifting  into 
the  sun. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  lingering  exclamation,  and  half  ris* 
ing  to  her  feet.  "  It  is  like  Jerusalem  ! " 

"  I  've  thought  of  that,"  said  Israel.  "  Have  you  been  to 
Jerusalem  1 " 


POLITE   TO  A   BUTTEKFLY.  41 

He  asked  it  as  innocently  as  might  be  ;  he  did  not  suppose 
that  anything  was  far  or  difficult  or  unlikely  to  these  rich  city 
people,  who  spent  all  their  summers  in  travelling  one  whither 
or  another. 

She  was  a  little  provoked,  as  if  she  thought  he  might  be 
laughing  at  her. 

"  No,"  she  said  shortly,  "  I  Ve  never  flitted  that  far."  And 
she  settled  slightly  farther  toward  the  corner  in  her  seat.  She 
remembered,  as  indeed  she  had  not  been  able  to  forget,  the 
"  butterfly."  But  Israel  did  not  remember  it  at  all,  and  she 
would  not  have  dared  to  make  her  words  really  reminding. 
The  little  spitefulness  was  all  for  her  own  indulgence. 

"  Our  minister  has  been  through  all  the  Bible  countries," 
Israel  volunteered,  really  trying,  perhaps,  to  be  pleasant  and 
polite  to  this  stranger  in  his  own  hill-country.  "  We  have  got 
a  pretty  unusual  man  for  a  country  church.  He  came  here  for 
his  health,  partly." 

France  said  nothing  to  this,  and  the  talk  quite  dropped. 

At  the  meeting-house  steps,  France  might  or  might  not  have 
been  conscious  of  the  little  rustic  gathering  and  its  glance's  of 
curiosity,  —  rustic  gatherings  do  not  stare  open-mouthed  in  these 
days,  —  as  the  handsomest  young  farmer  and  "  likeliest  "  man 
of  all  the  region  round  about  composedly  helped  her,  the  pretty, 
stylish  young  city  stranger,  down  over  the  wagon-wheel. 

She  accepted  his  assistance  with  corresponding  unconscious 
coolness,  and  walked  quietly  in  after  Mother  Heybrook  and  Miss 
Ammah,  who  had  alighted  just  before  her,  while  the  old  farmer 
and  Rael  led  the  horses  to  the  sheds. 

When  these  two  came  in,  in  their  turn,  .to  the  family  pew, 
France,  having  taken  her  seat  below  the  two  elder  ladies, 
found  Rael  next  her  again,  which  also  she  took  with  absolute 
unnoticing ;  as  much  so  as  the  fact  of  his  mother  being  at  her 
left. 

It  fell  to  her  to  share  a  hymn-book  with  him,  standing  up 
during  the  singing.  Now  no  Fellaiden  girl  would  have  done 
that  without  a  pink  flush  or  an  odylic  thrill  in  the  fingers  that 
held  her  side  of  the  cover.  France  Everidge's  utterly  quiet  face 
and  serene  eyes  looked  forward  with  the  simplest  listening  in 


42  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 

them  ;  and  the  close  of  her  glove-tips  upon  the  book-corner  nei 
ther  hesitated  or  shifted,  except  as  she  raised  her  thumb  and  let 
it  fall  again  when  Israel  turned  the  leaf.  There  were  eyes  in  the 
pews  behind  them  that  were  watching  all  this,  and  saw  nothing 
but  the  bearing  of  a  lady,  —  something  a  shade  finer  in  its  re 
pose,  perhaps,  than  ordinarily  perfected  itself  in  Fellaiden, 
but  which  had  nothing  whatever  to  do,  apparently,  with  any 
girl-consciousness,  either  pleased  or  displeased.  Still  less  did 
it  betray  to  the  Heybrooks  themselves  that  which  was  neverthe 
less  the  consciousness  of  the  unconsciousness,  the  determination 
in  it,  —  a  little  hurt  and  proud,  —  to  be  neither  "  stuck  up  "  nor 
accessible,  but  just  no  more  to  him  or  his  politeness  than  he  had 
said ;  alighted  near  him,  but  of  her  own  errand  and  happening 
merely,  as  it  might  be  with  the  butterfly. 

The  minister  was  "  unusual."  His  sermon  to-day  was  upon 
Paul,  the  Hebrew  of  the  Hebrews.  It  fitted  on  curiously  to 
the  suggestion  that  had  come  to  France  and  Israel  by  the  way. 

It  spoke  of  how  "  Hebrew "  meant  "  from  beyond  the  Eu 
phrates  ;  "  from  beyond  the  separating  river  that  runs  between 
the  country  of  the  men  that  know  not  God  and  the  country  of 
God's  children;  of  the  divine  idea  —  the  Abraham  —  that  first 
comes  over,  promised  and  seeking  ;  of  all  the  typical  history  ; 
of  the  abiding  in  "  the  land  "  ;  the  straying  into  Egypt ;  the 
leading  back  through  the  desert ;  the  conquering  and  the  sin 
ning  ;  the  defeat  and  the  going  away  into  captivity,  yes,  even 
to  the  very  borders  again  of  the  great  river,  into  the  edges  of 
the  old  idolatry.  Of  Mankind  the  Hebrew,  made  for  coming 
over  from  ignorance  into  light,  crossing  continually  some  new 
Euphrates  ;  of  the  "  Hebrews  of  the  Hebrews,"  taught  deeper 
and  deeper,  from  beyond  and  still  from  that  beyond  to  another, 
passover  after  passover.  Of  how  God  calls,  how  He  chooses  ; 
a  nation  from  nations,  a  man  from  men ;  yes,  ourselves  from 
ourselves,  until  he  makes  up,  first  in  every  one,  and  at  last  of 
all  in  one  grand  body,  his  new  Jerusalem,  that  descendeth  from 
Him  out  of  heaven.  And  how  that  is  the  restoration,  the  coming 
back  of  the  Jews,  and  the  eternal  rebuilding,  and  the  tabernacle  of 
God  with  men.  But  how,  before  that  can  be,  there  shall  be  the 
loosing  of  the  avenging  angels  of  the  revelation,  "  bound "  in 


POLITE   TO   A   BUTTERFLY.  43 

that  "  great  river,  the  river  Euphrates,"  —  in  all  that  separates 
and  hinders  from  the  coming  into  the  kingdom,  —  to  slay,  and 
slay,  and  slay,  with  fire,  and  with  smoke,  and  with  brimstone. 

When  France  and  Israel  reached  the  crest-curve  of  the  great 
hill  again  on  their  way  home,  but  not  before,  France  spoke. 
"  I  think  that  was  a  grand  sermon,"  she  said. 

It  belonged  to  her,  the  stranger,  to  say  it  of  Israel  Hey- 
brook's  minister.  She  forgot,  too,  her  pretty  pique  for  the  in 
stant,  in  the  great  things  they  had  been  hearing.  But  Israel 
only  quietly  inclined  his  head  for  answer.  Perhaps  he,  also, 
in  the  great  things,  forgot  his  purpose  to  "  be  polite." 

There  was  enough  to  think  of  going  down  the  pitches,  where 
the  colt  doubled  himself  up  with  holding  back  ;  and  before  them 
was  the  glory  of  the  vast  hill  region,  wave  beyond  wave,  melting 
at  last,  in  faint  blue  outlines,  into  the  blue,  faint  also,  of  the 
sun-filled  sky. 

France  made  no  other  attempt  at  conversation  ;  when  she 
sprang  from  the  buggy  upon  the  doorstone,  she  sprang  at  once 
away  from  whatever  slight  beginning  she  had  made  of  an  ac 
quaintance  with  her  companion.  The  butterfly  was  off  the 
mullein-stalk.  For  days  afterward  it  happened  somehow  that 
the  girl  never  lit  or  lingered  where  Israel  was,  long  enough  to 
be  looked  at  or  spoken  to.  As  for  him,  he  never  even  "  minded  " 
that  the  mullein-stalk  was  empty.  Perhaps,  however,  that  last 
depends  upon  how  far  you  go  into  the  mind  to  find  the  minding. 
Perhaps  Israel  himself  did  not  go  far  enough.  If  he  had,  he 
might  have  detected  a  little  soliloquizing  voice  away  back  there, 
saying,  rather  persistently,  "What  difference  does  it  make  to 
me]" 


44  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER   V. 

HIDE  AND   GO  SEEK. 

Now,  when  a  young  woman  takes  some  care  to  keep  herself 
out  of  a  young  man's  daily  way,  and  the  young  man  is  saying  to 
himself  what  difference  is  it  to  him,  their  spheres,  or  atmo 
spheres,  are  making,  I  fancy,  some  fine,  delicate  tangent  of  in 
terest,  —  an  interest  that  is  often,  as  here,  altogether  due  in  its 
inception  to  some  little  kink  of  accidental  reason,  or  unreason, 
for  not  allowing  any  possibility  of  interest  at  all.  It  might 
easily  have  been  that  these  two  should  have  come  and  gone  in 
each  other's  sight  all  summer  without  more  sense  of  concern 
ing  each  other  than  a  butterfly  and  —  any  noble,  useful  crea 
ture  of  different  kind  that  you  may  choose  ;  I  cannot  compare 
my  Rael  in  such  wise,  distinct  and  different  as  his  life  and  habit 
so  far  may  have  been  from  those  of  France.  But  those  chance 
words  had  moved,  in  each  of  them,  some  question  that  would 
keep  looking  for  an  answer  now  ;  besides  which,  who  can  tell, 
even  ?  for  they  were  not  butterfly  and  that  other  thing  ;  they 
were  human  creatures ;  and  so  it  was  because  of  the  very  un- 
likeness  between  them  in  all  outward  place  and  accident  that 
the  human  —  yes,  the  male  and  feminine  —  in  them,  could  but 
be  drawn,  perhaps,  curiously  at  least,  toward  some  thought  and 
study  of  each  other.  What  was  queer  about  it  now  was  the 
fact  that,  secretly  studying  the  other,  each  was  making  most 
gratuitous  efforts  to  hide  from  the  other  the  actual  self,  under 
an  exaggeration  of  the  differing  circumstances. 

Israel  wore  coarser  and  rustier  leather  boots  than  he  had  any 
need  to  wear,  and  he  hunted  out,  on  some  pretence  of  broader 
brim,  the  very  brokenest  and  blackenedest  old  straw  hat  that 
had  ever  seen  a  haymaking.  On  the  other  hand,  France,  who 
hated  the  bother  of  much  dressing,  and  had  rejoiced  over  the 


HIDE   AND   GO   SEE  1C.  45 

prospect  of  "  living  in  a  sacque,"  got  up  the  most  careful  of 
toilets,  and  sat,  as  useless-looking  as  she  could,  under  the  great 
elm  canopy  before  the  door,  or  on  the  piazza  ;  always  flitting  if 
Israel  came  near,  or  resting  on  her  mullein-stalk  with  the 
serenity  of  a  winged  thing  that  knows  she  can  lift  herself  in 
stantly  into  the  unreachable  air  if  a  coarse  touch  approaches. 

And  here  was  a  yet  queerer  thing :  that,  through  the  whole, 
each  quite  clearly  detected  that  the  other  was  hiding,  though 
both  thought  themselves  effectually  hid. 

"  He  makes  himself  as  horridly  common  as  he  can,  because 
he  supposes  I  'm  not  capable  of  understanding  his  uncommon- 
ness." 

"  She  gets  behind  all  that  extra  niceness  because  I  'm  not  fit 
to  be  let  see  her  as  she  is." 

So  that  the  queerest  thing  of  the  whole  was  brought  to  pass  : 
that  they  were,  in  their  wise  notions  of  their  own  aspects  in 
each  other's  minds,  quite  perfectly  hidden  from  each  other  after 
all. 

Sometimes,  fresh  from  the  field,  straw  hat  in  hand,  and  hair 
rumpled  back,  damp  and  curly,  from  his  forehead,  Israel  would 
sit  down  on  a  piazza-chair  or  step,  or  on  the  doorstone,  near 
Miss  Ammah,  finding  her  alone  ;  and  France  would  hear  from 
within,  or  see,  coming  homeward  from  a  walk,  that  they  were 
talking  cosily  and  easily  together,  and  she  was  angry  in  her 
heart  that  this  young  man,  to  whom  she  never  gave  the 
slenderest  opportunity7,  did  not  care  to  say  a  word  to  her ;  while 
he,  listening  for  her  step,  or  watching  the  far-off  shine  and 
flutter  of  her  garments  in  the  sun,  would  rise  as  soon  as  she 
came  near  and  walk  away,  leaving  her  to  her  place  and  her 
better  right. 

"  What  does  he  find  to  talk  about  to  you,  Miss  Ammah  1 "  she 
asked  very  carelessly  one  day,  when  she  came  in  with  an  armful 
of  ferns,  and  could  not  bear  it  any  longer. 

"  Oh,  everything.  All  his  plans.  I  've  known  him  and  all 
of  them,  you  know,  these  five  years." 

"  Has  he  got  plans'?"  she  inquired  indifferently  ;  as  indifferently 
as  she  handled  a  great  plumy  cluster  of  superb,  locust-like 
fronds,  raising  in  her  fingers  the  bit  of  root  from  which  the 


46  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

grouped  stems  sprang  till  she  looked  upward  through  its  branchy 
forest  and  leafy  cloud,  yet  seeming  scarcely  to  notice  that  she 
looked  up  or  that  a  lovely  wonder  was  above  her  eyes.  She 
might  have  been  questioning  whether  one  fine  creation  more 
than  another  could  plan  or  change  for  itself,  up  here  in  these 
woods,  other  than  to  grow  on  just  where  it  had  been  put. 

"  Of  course  he  has,  or  had,  and  has  now,  —  but  different. 
He  wanted  to  be  an  engineer.  You  've  seen  his  books  about." 

"  Those  physics  and  mechanics,  —  Ganot  and  the  Calculus, 
and  things  1  Are  those  his1?  " 

"Why,  don't  you  know  they  are?  I  saw  you  take  one  up 
yesterday,  and  it  opened  at  the  name  in  the  fly-leaf." 

"Did  it?" 

"  France  Everidge,  I  believe  you  're  looking  the  wrong  way  to 
see  Rael  Hey  brook,  or  anything  that  belongs  to  him.  You 
need  n't  undertake  to  look  down." 

"  Do  I  ? "  persisted  the  girl  lazily. 

"  Why  do  you  bristle  all  over  so  with  interrogation  points  ? 
You  are  a  positive  porcupine." 

"  Am  11  I  trust  that  before  I  get  away  from  Fellaiden  it 
may  be  settled  what  order  of  natural  history  1  belong  to.  I 
thought  I  was  papilionaceous." 

Miss  Ammah  gave  her  a  keen  glance  ;  then  she  went  back 
quietly  to  the  beginning  of  the  subject. 

"  He  has  had  two  terms  in  Boston  at  the  Technological,  and 
he  meant  to  have  worked  his  way  abroad  to  study  in  the  German 
schools.  But  his  father  went  and  upset  it  all  by  signing  some 
thing  ever  so  long  ago,  when  Rael  was  learning  his  multiplica 
tion  table,  —  a  bond  for  somebody ;  and  after  it  was  all  forgotten 
it  went  wrong,  and  came  down  upon  him  when  Rael  was  just  home 
for  his  second  summer.  And  then  there  had  to  be  a  mortgage 
put  upon  the  farm,  and  these  boys  have  got  to  work  it  off. 
Lyman  will  have  to  be  a  doctor  finally  ;  it 's  in  him,  and 
there  '11  be  suffering  somewhere  without  the  help  that  was 
made  for  it,  Rael  says,  if  it  does  n't  come  to  use  ;  besides, 
there  's  longer  time  for  Lyman.  Israel  is  twenty-three,  and  he 
could  n't  get  away  these  two  or  three  years  yet,  and  so  he  has 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  up  with  the  farm  and  see  the  old 


HIDE  AND  GO  SEEK.  47 

folks  through.  But  he  doesn't  give  up  his  reading  either. 
The  truth  of  things  is  all  the  same,  he  says,  and  it 's  just  as 
good  to  find  it." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  him." 

"  Good  ?     It 's  magnificent ! " 

France  got  up,  left  all  her  load  of  pretty  green  lying  on  the 
settee  where  she  had  thrown  it,  and  walked  into  the  house  with 
her  one  Royal  Osmunda  —  anonymous  to  her,  for  she  did  not 
know  ferns  scientifically  —  in  her  hand.  She  went  up  to  her 
room,  set  it  in  a  tall  blue-gray  jar,  and  poured  fresh  water  to 
it.  She  stood  and  looked  at  it  a  minute ;  turned  it  so  that  it 
rested  more  stately  in  its  place,  perfect  in  its  every  fair  and 
manifold  division. 

"  That  is  the  sort  of  thing,  then,  that  comes  to  life  here,  wild, 
among  the  fields ;  and  I  never  saw  it  until  now,  and  do  not 
know  it  by  name  when  I  do  see  it." 

She  said  it  to  herself  more  exactly  than  she  reckoned :  she 
saw  the  royal  thing  plain  enough ;  she  did  not  know  by  name, 
by  place,  or  by  the  character  that  it  had  already  taken  with 
those  who  did  know,  —  either  the  man  or  the  cryptogam.  She 
began  to  resent,  confusedly,  that  she  had  been  kept  out  of 
knowing. 


48  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER    VI. 

HAY-SWATHS    AND  HIGH  COURTESY. 

AFTER  these  days  France  Everidge  tired,  apparently,  of  that 
which  she  had  pretended  to  bring  here  and  put  in  contrast  with 
sweet  and  vigorous  realities.  She  tired  of  her  separateness  and 
her  niceness ;  she  walked  ofteuer  into  the  woods  and  down  by 
the  brookside  ;  she  made  friends  with  Lyman,  for  she  could  talk 
with  this  boy ;  and  she  folded  away  her  butterfly  wings  quite 
invisibly,  finding  it  only  worth  while  to  be  and  to  wear,  from 
morning  to  night,  that  which  left  her  freest  to  make  part  of  the 
primal,  delicious,  busy  life  that  earth  and  its  creatures  were 
living  about  her. 

Lyman  liked  her.  He  was  pleased  when  she  came  to  the 
edge  of  his  ploughed  field,  and  stood  there  waiting  with  a  ques 
tion  or  a  comradely  word  for  him,  till  he  got  to  the  end  of  his 
furrow  with  his  cultivator.  He  made  odd  half-hours  of  leisure, 
to  go  with  her  and  show  her  where  the  maiden-hair  grew,  knee- 
deep  in  a  green  sea  of  beauty.  He  was  the  one  now,  nearly 
always,  to  drive  her  to  church  on  the  Sundays.  Rael  walked  : 
two  of  the  menfolks  must  always  do  that ;  and  the  sturdy  old 
farmer  could  trudge  over  the  hill  as  well  as  his  boys,  and 
thought,  somehow,  that  one  of  the  boys,  new-suited  with  tailor's 
clothes,  was  fittest  to  drive  the  girl. 

It  happened  one  Monday,  when  the  early  haying  was  begun, 
that  France,  her  breath  and  blood  high  stimulated  with  the 
oxygen  of  the  hills  in  the  clearest  of  hill  mornings,  flung  down 
work  or  book  with  sudden  impulse,  and  went  off  swiftly  down 
the  north  mowing,  where  Lymau's  machine,  stridulous  like  a 
host  of  locusts,  was  making  that  "  noise  like  a  flame  of  fire  that 
devoureth  the  stubble,"  and  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  dying 
breath  of  the  falling  grasses. 

She  stood  and  watched  him  along  the  lower  swath,  then  up 


HAY-SWATHS   AND   HIGH    COURTESY.  49 

toward  her  over  the  slope  and  along  the  upper  margin  of  the 
great  slope  again,  the  stems  dropping  in  a  broad,  even  sweep 
beside  his  wheels,  until  he  reached  her,  and  stopped  his  team  in 
the  mid-line  to  speak  to  her. 

"  It 's  like  a  war-chariot,"  she  said.  "  They  contrived  that 
three  or  four  thousand  years  ago,  to  mow  down  men.  I  wonder 
they  never  thought  of  it  for  grass  before." 

"Too  busy  their  own  way,  maybe,  counting  'all  flesh  as 
grass,' "  said  Lyman,  getting  off,  and  taking  occasion  to  clear 
the  guards.  "  They  have  n't  beat  all  their  spears  into  pruning- 
hooks  yet,  I  presume." 

"  I  wish  I  could  ride  there,"  said  France.  "  Could  I,  for  one 
round,  do  you  think  ?  Could  you  lead  ]  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lyman ;  "  ride  all  day  if  you  want  to." 
And  he  put  her  up,  with  great  glee,  into  the  iron-framed  seat. 

"  0,  it  is  perfectly  lovely  !  "  cried  France,  as  the  colt  and  Salt 
petre  started  up  again,  and  the  whirr  of  the  wheels  and  the  click 
of  the  knives  and  the  soft  swish  of  the  dropping  stems  began 
again.  "  I  think  I  shall  stay  here  all  day."  She  folded  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  and  sat,  like  a  Boadicea  of  the  sweet  millennium, 
riding  down  the  gentle  host  of  the  herbage,  consenting,  with 
praiseful  incense-breath,  to  be  gathered  to  its  use. 

"  What  is  that  girl  about  1 "  cried  Miss  Amman,  coming  upon 
the  piazza  in  time  to  see  her  finishing  her  second  round. 

Some  one  else,  at  the  same  moment,  was  crossing  the  low 
wall  from  the  roadway  into  the  mowing,  —  Israel,  hoe  on 
shoulder,  on  his  way  from  the  turnip  to  the  bean  field.  Just 
as  they  both  saw  her,  the  girl  crouched  down  sidewise,  giving 
a  scream.  "  Stop,  Lyman  !  Oh,  I  'm  caught ! "  she  called  out. 

Lyman  laughed,  with  one  breath  :  he  thought  she  meant  she 
was  discovered ;  with  the  next,  when  he  had  half  turned  his 
head,  he  shouted  a  tremendous  "  Whoa  !  "  to  his  horses.  The 
girl's  gown  was  drawn  into  the  cogs  of  the  gearing-wheels  :  she 
was  crouching  dpwn  because  she  was  being  pulled  down. 
Another  revolution  or  two,  and  she  might  have  been  thrown 
before  those  hungry,  clicking  knives. 

He  had  hardly  reached  her  side,  before  Israel,  flinging  down 
his  hoe,  had  run  with  great  leaps  to  the  horses'  heads. 

4 


50  ODD,  OB   EVEN? 

"  They  '11  stand,"  said  Lyman,  with  easy  drawl. 

"  It  is  n't  going  to  be  left  to  them,"  Rael  answered  quickly. 

"  All  right !  You  hold  on  there,"  Lyman  rejoined,  half  chok 
ing  with  fun,  now,  between  France's  dilemma  and  his  brother's 
unwonted  haste  and  heat,  since  he  felt  matters  secure  in  his 
own  hands. 

Secure  enough,  but  with  some  question  :  should  he  cut  away 
the  fabric  in  great  tatters,  or  should  he  wait  to  unscrew  the 
gearing]  Meanwhile  she  was  sitting  there,  frightened  and 
ashamed,  and  painfully  cramped  in  her  forced  position. 

"  Could  you  unfasten  a  belt  or  something  ] "  he  asked,  the 
gentleman  in  him  keeping  uppermost  with  tolerable  gravity, 
but  the  boy  dying  underneath  with  drollery. 

"  No,  never  mind  !  Tear  it  out,  —  cut  it,  —  anyhow," 
France  said  impatiently,  tied  fast  there  to  her  own  foolishness. 

"  There 's  a  lot  of  it,"  said  Lyman,  unclasping  his  knife. 
"  I  don't  see  how  it  all  got  in." 

Rael  patted  the  horses'  noses,  —  kept  his  head  the  other  side 
of  theirs,  —  and  neither  interfered  nor  noticed  further. 

When  France,  released  with  the  loss  of  a  square  half-yard  of 
her  dress-skirt,  and  with  a  grievous  ruin  beneath  that  in  her 
gay  blue  balmoral,  sprang  from  the  carriage  above,  he  passed 
around  it  below,  came  up  from  behind  on  the  whole  side  of  her, 
and  walked  with  her  up  the  hill. 

Miss  Tredgold  was  hurrying  down. 

France  clutched  her  disarray  fearlessly  together  with  her 
right  hand,  and  grew  cool ;  feeling  a  most  unspeakable  acknowl 
edgment  within  her  to  the  farmer-fellow's  quick  good  sense. 
If  he  were  anywhere  else  in  that  big  hay-field  now,  but  just 
exactly  where  he  was,  how  could  she  walk  up  over  its  crown, 
and  not  remember  that  his  eyes  might  be  following  her  in  her 
absurd  demolishment  1  That  they  would  be,  she  did  not  believe 
at  all,  any  more  than  we  believe  in  the  possible  lurker  in  our 
dark  rooms  at  midnight ;  yet  she  would  have  quivered  at  it,  all 
the  same,  as  we  do.  She  was  thankful,  too,  for  a  delay  :  there 
could  be  an  ordinary  word,  now,  to  tone  away  that  ridiculous 
impression  of  her  which  it  was  good  he  had  not  gone  right  off 
with,  and  which  she  never  could  have  meddled  with  again,  to 
try  to  mend. 


HAY-SWATHS   AND   HIGH   COURTESY.  51 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  hindered  your  brother  awfully.  Will  it 
break  the  machine  1 " 

"  Oh,  no  !  that 's  all  right  by  this  time." 

"  It  was  lovely  up  there,"  she  said  composedly ;  "just  sail 
ing  along  over  the  tips  of  the  grass-heads,  and  seeing  them  slip 
down  before  the  scythe." 

"There  isn't  a  prettier  thing  I  know  of  than  to  ride  a  mow 
ing-machine  a  day  like  this,"  said  Rael.  "  I  'm  glad  you  tried 
it ;  but  Lyme  should  have  taken  better  care.  There  was  no 
need  of  any  trouble." 

How  nice  it  was  he  said  a  "  prettier  thing  " !  He  might  have 
said  "  a  jollier  thing,"  or  "  better  fun,"  which  would  not  have 
let  her  off  at  all ;  but  "  prettier  "  was  girlish,  was  ladylike ;  as 
if  girls  rode,  or  might  ride,  mowing-machines  every  day. 

She  could  have  counted  the  words  she  had  ever  exchanged 
with  him  thus  far ;  she  could  have  counted  the  words  she  had 
heard  spoken  of  him  :  but  she  had  learned  of  him  beyond 
words  already ;  she  had  learned  a  secret  of  nobleness,  that 
was  a  key  and  a  certainty  for  all  his  acts.  This  fine  tact  was 
but  the  large  generosity  moving  upon  minuter  things,  like 
the  magnetism  that  keeps  the  earth-axis  steadfast  among  the 
stars,  and  turns  the  tremble  of  the  needle  just  as  surely  to  its 
parallel. 

Gentlemen,  trained  in  courtesy  from  the  time  they  could 
take  their  little  hats  off  to  make  a  bow,  she  had  been  among 
all  her  days.  A  simple  man,  in  whom  all  courtesy  showed  it 
self  just  because  it  was  and  had  to  be,  was  like  the  beauty  of 
noble  hills  after  the  measured  prettiness  of  parks. 

One  of  these  gentlemen,  a  man  making  his  mark  now  in  the 
world,  and  with  a  good  deal,  really,  to  mark  with,  had  approached 
her  with  such  opportunity  as  he  could  get  to  approach  a  "  mid 
dle  sister  "  in  a  family  of  society  like  the  Everidges.  The  elder 
ones  counted  him  among  their  own  availabilities :  France  knew 
very  well  what  she  could  do  if  she  chose.  But  this  gentleman 
had  quite  forgotten  something  that  France  remembered  with  a 
tingle  and  a  flash  whenever  she  saw  or  thought  of  him.  She 
had  done  a  silly  little  thing,  as  girls  of  fourteen  will,  once ;  and 
this  man,  a  youth  then,  full  of  sufficiency  and  conceit,  had 


52  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 

quenched  her  for  it.  It  was  only  that  she  had  crossed  a  room, 
where  a  young  party  was  assembled,  with  a  certain  trippingness, 
affected  just  then  as  a  fashion  among  her  schoolmates.  It  was 
prettier  in  a  schoolroom,  at  recess,  than  in  a  drawing-room,  in 
the  edge  of  grown-up  dignities.  Very  possibly  it  had  not  been 
adopted  into  drawing-rooms,  or  within  that  edge  of  dignity  which 
is  always  just  removed  from  the  little  catch-airs  or  the  catch 
words  of  the  day.  However  that  may  be,  our  youth  had  presently 
after  to  cross  the  same  space ;  and  he  had  shortened  and  quickened 
his  steps,  and  poised  his  elbows,  in  the  slightest  possible  parody  of 
hers.  Nobody  noticed  it,  perhaps,  to  trace  the  motive,  but  herself; 
her  little  performance  might  have  been  but  one  of  many  that  pro 
voked  his  ridicule  as  the  girls'  nonsense  of  that  day ;  but  that 
man  might  rise  —  or  sink  —  through  the  whole  grade  of  Ameri 
can  public  preferment,  and  she  would  never  see  him  but  as  a 
pert  youngster,  mincing  across  a  parlor  carpet  to  pain  and 
shame  the  harmless,  passing  folly  of  a  little  girl. 

Mrs.  Everidge  was  keeping  Frances  back,  now,  like  other 
mothers  of  many  daughters ;  but  it  had  occurred  to  her  com 
fortably  that  there  was  a  way  for  her  to  go  forward,  one  of  these 
days,  whenever  she  herself  might  judiciously  allow.  France 
would  have  gone  back  into  pinafores  and  learned  all  her  way 
up  again,  certain  enough  to  skip  the  flit-step  when  she  came  to 
it,  sooner  than  forgive  the  mocking,  and  trust  her  possible  re 
maining  weaknesses  to  the  mercy  of  the  man  who  mocked. 

But  even  this  farmer  had  called  her  a  butterfly.  Had  he, 
though?  We  know  that  he  was  finding  less  a  likening  for  her 
than  for  his  own  indifference  when  he  said  it.  Was  it  the 
indifference  that  made  it  stay  by  her  so  sorely?  Not  in  the 
ordinary,  personal  way  of  girls  looking  insatiately  and  every 
where  for  personal  admiration ;  but  the  woman  in  her,  that 
always  wants  to  stand  representative  of  a  worthy,  beautiful 
womanhood  to  man,  hated  to  be  put  by  in  such  fashion  and 
under  such  a  type.  And  she  kept  thinking  all  through  her 
swift-forming  respects  for  him,  "  He  does  not  believe  me  capa 
ble  of  comprehending." 

Rael  turned  off  when  Miss  Tredgold  came  to  them,  and  struck 
obliquely  from  them,  forward,  toward  the  upper  barns.  He 


HAY-SWATHS   AND   HIGH   COURTESY.  53 

knew  he  had  forgotten  his  hoe,  down  there  in  the  grass ;  but 
he  just  kept  on  and  got  another.  He  was  feeling,  scarcely 
saying,  to  himself,  "  She  was  a  lady  through  the  whole  of  it. 
How  pure  and  pretty  her  enjoyment  was ;  and  how  quietly  she 
gave  out  that  it  was  that,  and  not  a  romp  !  But  she  thinks  I 
can't  reach  up  to  her  ladyhood ;  she  is  careful  not  to  take  me 
on  a  level.  Lyme  may  do ;  he  's  only  a  boy ;  she  can  be  com 
rades  with  him  :  she  would  have  to  make  something  like  a 
friend  of  me,  and  she  can't  do  that." 

So  they  fell  back  into  their  old  distances  again. 


54  ODD,  OR  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SARELL    AND  EAST  HOLLOW. 

SARELL  was  going  over  to  Hawksbury  to  spend  a  Sunday.  She 
had  had  the  promise  of  doing  this  once  or  twice  in  the  season, 
as  part  of  her  summer  bargain.  She  had  one  married  sister 
living  in  Hawksbury,  and  another  here,  just  this  side  of  Fellai- 
den  Centre.  Sarell  had  these  two  households  a  good  deal  on 
her  mind ;  besides  which,  there  were  affairs  at  Uncle  Amb's, 
where  she  had  "hired  out"  two  winters,  and  where  certain 
matters,  that  she  did  not  want  to  lose  the  thread  of,  had  linked 
themselves  in  her  knowledge  and  interest,  with  her  life  and 
knowledge  elsewhere,  as  we  may  come  to  see. 

Sarell  was  a  young  woman  to  take  up  responsibilities  as  she 
went  along.  She  liked  them.  She  became  naturally  a  part  of 
whatever  was  happening  in  her  Troy  ;  and  wherever  her  tempor 
ary  Troy  might  be,  there  was  pretty  sure  to  be  something  happen 
ing.  That,  however,  is  true  of  all  times  and  places ;  even  under  a 
burdock  leaf  or  a  stone  is  a  whole  world  of  event  and  action, 
any  hour  of  a  summer's  day  :  the  difference  is  in  there  being  a 
looker-on,  and  a  looker-on  who  is  also  a  looker-in. 

Sarell  saw  into  things ;  she  prided  herself  on  that ;  and  she 
could  put  things  together.  So  that  it  fell  in  her  way,  as  she 
said,  "  'most  always,"  if  she  "  picked  up  one  piece,  one  time," 
to  "  pick  up  what  it  fitted  on  to,  next."  "  If 't  was  an  odd 
stocking  to-day,  it  was  the  mate  to  it  to-morrow." 

As  she  moved  back  and  forth,  in  her  alternations  of  duty 
and  concern,  between  Hawksbury  and  Fellaiden,  and  Uncle 
Amb's  farm,  that  lay  on  the  east  line,  just  out  of  Sudley,  car 
rying  that  "thread  of  things"  and  its  responsibility  with  her, 
she  made  lines  and  connections,  like  the  lace-work  that  grounds 
in  and  joins  the  pattern-figures  of  a  web ;  since  she  never  forgot 


SARELL   AND   EAST   HOLLOW.  55 

or  failed  to  tie  her  knot  where  she  saw  a  join  ought  to  be,  or 
where  she  could  put  forth  a  finger  to  make  it. 

Sarell  knew  very  well  the  history  of  which  Miss  Amman  had 
given  only  the  outline,  without  names,  to  France  Everidge. 

She  knew  old  Puttenham  held  the  mortgage  on  the  Hey- 
brook  farm,  the  interest  on  which  the  farmer  had  to  pay  up 
each  six  months.  She  knew  about  Uncle  Amb's  bond  that 
Farmer  Heybrook  signed,  and  had  had  to  come  down  with  the 
money  for;  and  ever  since  she  had  known  and  understood  that, 
she  had  been  endeavoring  to  know  and  understand  the  secret  of 
the  "chastised  meekness"  of  Deacon  Ambrose's  ostensible 
poverty,  and  the  evident  straightforward  betterment  and  sure 
productiveness  of  his  acres ;  also  to  reconcile,  or  confront,  the 
same  idea  of  poverty  and  resignation  with  the  sharp,  watching 
look  in  Mother  Pemble's  restless  gray  eyes,  —  the  only  part  of 
her,  except  her  hands,  supposed  to  be  capable  of  restlessness, 
in  her  bedridden  helplessness  of  now  some  seven  years'  dura 
tion,  —  as  they  followed  the  deacon  to  and  fro,  or  sent  glances 
of  a  corkscrew  sort  of  penetration  into  the  very  air,  to  pursue, 
as  it  were,  the  hidden  twist  there  might  be  in  his  words  which 
the  air  dispersed,  at  the  times  when  he  got  pinned  down,  in 
spite  of  himself,  by  her  bedside,  to  answer  cross-examinative 
questions  concerning  plans,  affairs,  and  results  at  the  home 
stead. 

"  Tain't  fer  nothin'  she  lays  there,  watching  Uncle  Arab1  an' 
the  big  seckerterry,"  shrewd  Sarell  said  to  herself.  For  the 
big  secretary  could  no  more  be  moved  from  the  "  east  settin'- 
room "  than  Mother  Pemble  herself,  who  had  chosen  and 
claimed  that  room  of  all  the  rooms  in  the  house  to  be  bed 
ridden  in. 

Mother  Pemble  had  the  right;  for  when  " CareViwe,"  her 
daughter,  married  Ambrose  Newell,  twenty  years  before, 
Mother  Pemble  made  over  to  her  all  the  little  property  that 
Josiah,  her  husband,  had  left  for  them  both ;  upon  the  making 
over  to  his  wife,  on  the  deacon's  part,  of  the  homestead  farm, 
and  to  herself  the  written  promise  that  she  should  have  her 
board  and  maintenance  from  them,  and  the  occupancy  of  such 
siugle  room  as  she  should  elect  in  the  dwelling-house. 


56  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

Fond  of  money  and  control  as  Mrs.  Pemble  was  known  to  be, 
everybody  was  surprised  at  the  exchange  of  her  independent 
means  for  this  equivalent  of  maintenance.  But  Ambrose  Newell 
was  thought  a  thriving  and  a  saving  man  in  those  days,  and 
Mother  Pemble  had  no  one  to  think  of  but  CareYirc^,  who  alone 
stood  —  as  a  child  sometimes  does,  just  better  than  nothing 
—  between  her  soul  and  the  perdition  of  utter  selfish  covetous- 
ness.  For  her,  and  to  secure  what  she  thought  greater  things 
for  her  future,  she  would  do  anything ;  and  some  tangible  con 
sideration,  she  had  clearly  seen,  must  help  weigh  down  the 
scale  of  Ambrose  Newell's  inclination  at  the  critical  moment 
of  its  balance.  This  she  put  forth  in  the  making  known  of 
what  her  plan  would  be,  "  if  Care'line  should  marry,  and  take 
up  with  a  home  of  her  own."  It  had  been  as  shrewdly  led  up 
to  by  Ambrose,  in  his  friendly,  tentative  inquiry,  of  "  how  she 
would  ever  take  it  if  Care'liue  should  talk  of  settin'  up  in  life 
like  other  folks  ? " 

"  I  'd  give  up  all  I  've  got  to  her,  an'  she  might  take  care  of 
me,"  said  the  widow,  a  stout,  capable  body  herself,  twelve  years 
younger  than  the  deacon,  which  made  their  prospective  rela 
tionship  sufficiently  absurd ;  quite  as  likely  —  and  the  deacon 
could  take  that  into  account  —  to  lighten  as  to  make  care,  for 
the  next  twenty  years.  "  I  've  saved  and  spared  fer  Care'line ; 
an'  she  may  hev  it.  She  won't  begrudge  me  a  corner,  an'  what 
I  can  eat  an1  put  on ;  an'  I  've  got  good  store  of  most  things  fer 
clothing,  fer  my  lifetime." 

So  Ambrose  pushed  his  good  bargain ;  got  his  second  wife, 
thirty  years  younger  than  himself,  with  a  fresh  face  and  bright, 
pretty,  country  ways ;  got  his  homestead  and  farm  secured  from 
all  mishap  to  himself  by  that  generous  settling  upon  her;  got 
also  a  "  likely  "  mother-in-law  to  help  look  after  pantry  and  dairy  ; 
while  their  two  thousand  dollars  and  their  piece  of  land  merged 
themselves  in  the  working  of  the  farm  and  in  his  speculations ; 
for  even  up  here,  in  the  primitive  hills,  there  were  speculations 
for  those  who  could  get  "  forehanded  "  enough  to  enter  into 
them. 

There  was  a  company  in  Hawksbury  for  the  opening  of  a 
quarry,  and  the  making  of  a  bit  of  railroad  to  join  the  main  line, 


SARELL  AND   EAST   HOLLOW.  57 

for  transportation.  Ambrose  Newell  went  into  this,  and  became 
a  man  of  shares  and  mythical  money-making  .  Care'line  and 
her  mother  held  their  heads  high,  riding  in  and  out  of  Hawks- 
bury  with  him  on  his  "  business  days." 

All  went  on  flourishingly,  as  appeared,  for  some  years ;  the 
farm,  Care'line's,  turned  in  well  in  crops  and  stock ;  the  farmer 
sold  and  invested.  This  was  all  personal,  and  his  own  affair  : 
nobody  knew  exactly  what  he  did  with  it,  but  the  deacon  was 
looked  up  to  with  deference,  as  a  man  who  had  money  put  by, 
until,  at  last,  a  crisis  came,  to  which,  forever  after,  could  be 
referred  all  non-forthcoming  of  whatever  he  might  have  been 
believed  possessed  of. 

Some  new  stone,  that  came  rapidly  into  favor,  began  to  dis 
place  the  syenite  of  Powder  Hill,  and  make  riches  for  new  men, 
down  nearer  the  building  markets.  Dividends  lessened,  inter 
mitted  from  season  to  season,  then  failed  altogether  ;  and  at  last 
there  came  a  business  day  when  the  deacon's  face  looked  black 
as  he  drove  home  alone  from  Hawksbury,  having  grimly  refused 
the  jaunt  to  his  womenfolks  when  they  had  talked  of  it  the 
night  before.  And  in  a  few  weeks  the  works  at  the  quarry 
stopped ;  the  affairs  were  to  be  wound  up,  which  simply  meant 
that  the  stockholders  were  to  be  apprised  that  there  was 
nothing  represented  any  longer  by  their  certificates,  unless 
they  could  come  and  take  it  out  of  the  hornblende  slate  in 
Powder  Hill ;  and  that  such  of  them  as  had  other  property  were 
liable  for  their  proportion  of  "the  last  six  months'  debt  for  labor 
expenses  at  the  works. 

But  this  was  not  all  as  regarded  Deacon  Newell.  He  had 
held  a  certain  trust  in  his  hands,  not  large,  as  larger  men 
would  count  it,  but  of  essential  importance  to  all  concerned ; 
and  for  this  it  was  that  Farmer  Heybrook  had  put  his  name  to 
bonds  for  his  half-brother,  long  ago,  and  then  forgotten  all 
about  it. 

Nothing  transpired,  in  connection  with  the  other  losses,  at 
the  time.  Whatever  load  of  his  own  Uncle  Amb  had  to  carry, 
and  however  he  made  it  out,  after  the  abandonment  of  the 
Hawksbury  quarries,  the  interest  of  the  trust  got  paid  ;  but 
when  in  course  of  years  the  life-estate  for  which  he  held  it 


58  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

terminated,  and  the  principal  had  to  be  forthcoming,  there  was 
nothing  to  show. 

Not  that  he  spread  out  empty  and  defaulting  hands  to  the 
little  world  of  Hawksbury  and  Fellaiden  ;  he  did  not  tell  it  to 
the  church  ;  he  reversed  the  application  of  the  New  Testament 
precept,  and  first  told  his  own  delinquency,  or  as  he  expressed 
it,  his  "  unfort'nitness,"  to  his  half-brother,  to  see  what  help  or 
mercy  he  should  find  in  him. 

What  the  alternative  might  have  been  if  Welcome  Heybrook 
had  taken  him  up  roughly,  I  will  not  undertake  to  say;  I  do 
not  pretend  to  know  more  than  Welcome  and  his  neighbors 
could  find  out ;  and  nobody  knew  much  of  Uncle  Amb's  ways 
and  means,  any  more  in  their  restriction  than  they  had  done  in 
their  expansion. 

Welcome  turned  pretty  white  for  a  minute,  when  the  news 
came  upon  him  ;  then  he  asked,  "  Haven't  you  got  anything 
to  settle  it  with1?" 

"  Well,  not  of  any  accaount ;  I  jest  make  out  to  scratch  along, 
you  see.  I  could  raise  two  or  three  huuderds,  maybe."  And 
his  eye  sought  Welcome's  with  a  sharp,  quick,  sidewise  glance 
that  took  itself  back  again  before  Heybrook  met  it. 

Welcome  Heybrook  was  as  simple  as  a  child.  When  Am 
brose  said,  in  his  chastised  way,  "  You  k'n  let  it  all  aout,  if  you 
want  to.  I  've  bin  dreadful  unfort'nit,  and  I  can't  say  a  word ; 
but  I  don't  see  as  'twould  do  either  you  or  me  a  mite  o'  good," 
Welcome  took  upon  his  gentle,  whole-brotherly  heart  all  the 
burden  of  the  other's  fault,  and  the  fear  that  followed  it ;  and 
seeing,  also,  that  no  good  could  come,  or  evil  be  saved,  to  his 
own  by  any  other  course,  since  his  written  name  would  hold 
him  liable  for  all  the  forfeiture,  he  just  said,  — 

"I  s'pose  you '11  try  to  pay  me  by  degrees.  It 's  a  bad  job 
for  my  boys  —  "  and  then  could  n't  talk  any  more  about  it. 

Uncle  Arab  said,  "  Certain,  certain ;  he  should  pay  it  all 
up,  ef  he  was  prospered."  And  I  am  disposed  to  believe  he 
meant  it,  in  a  dim,  prospective  way,  when  it  should  come  easy 
to  him;  and  that,  at  the  moment,  he  really  might  not  have 
been  able  to  count  out  the  ready  dollars,  having  no  farm  of  his 
own  to  mortgage,  only  a  life  interest,  so  to  speak,  in  what  he  had 


SARELL   AND   EAST   HOLLOW.  59 

made  over  years  before  to  his  young  wife.  Perhaps,  also,  that 
"  ef  he  was  prospered  "  was  a  slant  retainer  upon  Providence,  — 
the  Providence  that  "  doth  not  suffer  the  righteous  to  be 
moved,"  —  and  that  Uncle  Amb,  according  to  his  dusky  lights, 
believed  in.  It  was  a  lien  upon  all  the  promises  through  this 
righteous  brother,  since  it  was  clear  that  he  should  not  come  to 
confusion,  and  equally  clear  that  it  must  depend,  instrumen- 
tally,  upon  what  should  be  given,  through  himself,  to  save  him. 
It  would  even  seem  —  or  may  seem  to  us,  as  we  follow  the 
story  —  that  he  was  loth  to  relinquish  this  security,  and  dis 
charge  the  account  with  Providence  by  the  liquidation  of  the 
full  claims  of  Welcome  Heybrook.  What  difference  did  it  make, 
so  long  as  the  farm  did  n't  actually  have  to  go }  And  he  did  n't 
mean  to  let  it  come  to  that  pass,  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
this  anticipates. 

The  Heybrook  farm,  then,  was  mortgaged,  and  Deacon  New- 
ell's  trust  was  rendered  up  without  exposure;  and  every  six 
months  Welcome  had  to  humble  himself  to  ask  his  own  of 
Ambrose  in  help,  merely  to  meet  the  interest.  And  while  the 
deacon  "  scratched  along,"  and  things  looked  as  comfortable  as 
ever  at  the  East  Hollow,  everybody  knew  that  somehow,  notwith 
standing  clearer  chances,  and  what  all  confessed  to  be  first-rate 
good  work,  there  was  something  that  had  run  down  hill  with 
what  ought  to  have  been  the  profits  of  our  friends  at  the  West 
Side.  Some  laid  it  to  the  account  of  their  ambitious  education 
of  their  boys ;  and  some  guessed  that  it  might  date  back  to  the 
deacon's  first  difficulties,  when  so  much  got  buried  up  in  the 
forsaken,  grass-grown  ledges.  It  was  all  in  the  family,  and  the 
Heybrooks  Were  whist  folks  about  their  concerns  always. 

The  deacon  had  no  children.  There  had  been  two  by  the 
first  marriage,  but  both  died  in  early  childhood.  Care'line  never 
had  any.  An  illness,  however,  when,  as  matrons  say,  she  was 
"disappointed,"  had  been  like  the  money  disappointments  of 
Uncle  Amb,  —  an  event  to  date  all  disabilities  from  ;  for,  though 
stout  of  figure  and  florid  of  complexion,  Care'line  never  got  her 
full  strength  again  from  that  time ;  and  her  strength,  as  re 
garded  its  application  to  domestic  labors,  had  not  been  before 
altogether  as  her  day  was,  —  in  fact,  the  day  had  not  been  iier 


60  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

day,  which  precisely  makes  the  difference.  She  had  never  taken 
it  to  herself,  or  troubled  herself  much  about  it.  The  old  lady, 
as  a  country  dowager  is  always  called,  though,  like  Mother 
Pemble,  still  on  the  forenoon  side  of  fifty,  had  done  the  work, 
and  vigilantly  "  seen  to  things." 

But  by  some  most  mysterious  visitation,  and  even  more  mys 
terious  acquiescence,  considering  her  will  and  motive,  Mother 
Pemble,  some  seven  years  ago,  had  broken  down. 

Elviry  Scovel  was  hired  in  to  help,  and  became  a  fixture.  In 
busy  times  —  haymaking,  harvesting,  and  "  sugarin'  off"  —  a  sec 
ond  assistant  had  to  be  called  in ;  and  people  commiserated  the 
deacon  for  the  incompetency  of  his  own  womenfolks,  and  won 
dered  how  he  ever  got  along  with  all  he  had  to  provide  for. 

That  he  did  get  along  —  "  wonderful,  certin,  considerin'  his  af 
flictions  "  —  was  allowed  on  all  sides.  The  deacon  himself  never 
complained,  except  so  far  as  to  say  to  Welcome  on  interest  days, 
that  it  "  was  tollable  hard,  hevin'  to  kerry  both  ends,"  and  that 
he  "  s'posed  it  was  all  for  the  best,  but  it  did  seem  as  if  the  luck 
did  n't  get  sorted  in  this  world  ;  at  least,  it  was  allers  pretty 
much  one  kind  that  come  to  his  house." 

It  did  not  look,  certainly,  as  if  the  main  debt  to  the  Hey- 
brooks  were  likely  to  be  repaid. 

It  was  usually  Sarell  Gately  who  filled  the  extra  needs  at 
East  Hollow  for  spring  and  fall  work  ;  she,  for  some  reason  of 
her  own,  would  come  for  very  "  reasonable  "  pay,  which  meant, 
as  we  have  all,  perhaps,  noticed  on  the  one  side  of  such  reckon 
ing,  something  rather  below  reason  in  regard  of  cheapness. 

Care'line  and  Elviry  "  laid  it  to  the  score  "  of  Hollis  Bassett, 
the  "hired  boy,"  whose  boyhood  had  reached  the  count  of 
some  fifteen  hayings  and  harvestings  since  he  first  began  to 
handle  a  rake,  or  gather  apples  into  barrels  in  the  deacon's  Long 
Brook  orchard. 

Hollis  was  a  handsome  fellow,  in  a  sunburnt,  country  fashion, 
with  a  kind  of  rollicking  sauciness  in  his  Yankee  speech,  and  an 
ease  and  unconstraint  in  the  rustic  bearing  that  had  never  been 
rebuked  into  awkwardness,  that  were  "taking  with  the  women." 
But  he  was  fonder  of  fishing  than  of  hoeing,  and  would  waste 
half  a  day  after  a  woodchuck  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  busy 


SARELL   AND   EAST   HOLLOW.  61 

with  chopping  or  piling  in  the  wood-loft.  Then  on  Sundays  he 
would  wear  fine  store-clothes,  and  come  into  church  with  his 
wavy  brown  hair  redolent  of  bergamot,  leaving  a  hired  "  team  " 
in  the  shed  outside,  in  which  he  would  invite  the  favored  girl  of 
the  day  to  ride  with  him  after  the  two  services  were  over,  round 
into  Reade  or  Hawksbury  or  Wakeslow,  or  over  by  the  pond 
or  the  ledges  in  the  sunset. 

There  was  only  Sarell  Gately,  of  all  the  girls  in  Fellaiden, 
who  never  seemed  to  care  for  these  serenely  secure  askings  of 
his ;  who  never  lingered  in  his  way  upon  the  church  steps  or 
green,  and  who  had  even,  now  and  again,  refused  the  public 
pride  and  felicity  of  being  handed  in  to  the  seat  by  his  side. 
Perhaps  the  pride  of  turning  quietly  away  homeward  had  been 
the  greater.  However,  Sarell  was  always  willing,  except  when 
promised  or  employed  at  the  Heybrooks',  to  come  to  Uncle 
Amb's  for  a  spell  of  work  ;  and  Hollis  would  fetch  her  to  and 
fro,  or  she  would  let  him  come  for  her  at  the  West  Side  farm 
for  her  trips  into  Hawksbury.  There  was  the  difference  of  being 
waited  on  for  a  real  service,  at  her  own  need  and  pleasure,  and 
that  of  waiting  his  pleasure  for  a  favor  common  to  every  good- 
looking  girl  in  the  three  parishes. 

Sarell  knew  quite  well  what  was  worth  while,  and  what  was 
better  missed  than  made. 

It  was  Hollis  Bassett  who  stood  this  Saturday  evening  on  the 
front  doorstone  at  the  Heybrooks',  holding  the  trim  lines  of  his 
"  livery  team."  He  had  on  a  bran  new  wide-awake  and  a  brown 
linen  duster,  and  had  got  himself  up  with  a  knowing  pair  of  driv 
ing-gloves  ;  but  Rael  Heybrook  passed  him  with  a  nod  whose 
mere  civility  was  aggravating,  and  Mother  Heybrook,  through 
the  parlor  blinds,  looked  out  at  him  with  a  face  in  which  an 
anxious  doubt  predominated. 

Sarell  carne  in  to  see  by  the  parlor  glass  that  her  overdress 
was  bunched  up  right  and  that  her  whole  effect  was  self-cred 
itable. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  turned  up  a  green  leaf  that  had  got  twisted 
beside  the  red  rose  in  the  hat-brim.  She  took  the  moment  to 
say  softly,  "It  ain't  my  business,  Sarell,  but  I  'm  a  kind  of 
mother  to  you,  you  know ;  and  his  looks  may  misrepperseut  him, 


62  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

but  I  don't  half  feel  he  's  to  be  calculated  on  for  anything  real 
substantial." 

The  tone  was  interrogative  in  its  deprecatory  gentleness  of 
suggestion  ;  and  Sarell  looked  back  at  her  with  something  just 
a  little  less  smart  and  off-hand  than  usual  in  her  air,  though 
she  answered,  "  He 's  all  right,  Mrs.  Heybrook,  thank  you.  I 
know  just  what  he  is  good  for,  and  just  where  to  keep  him. 
If  I  did  n't  take  him  in  hand  a  little,  he  would  be  spoiled  ;  and 
't  would  be  a  pity  he  should  be  throwed  away." 

"  She  talks  as  if  he  was  preserves  or  pickles,"  said  good  Mrs. 
Heybrook  to  herself.  "  An',  too,  I  s'pose  a  man  is  better  worth 
saving,  if  it  don't  waste  the  sugar  it 's  done  with,"  she  added, 
walking  off  meditatively  to  her  quiet,  cool  kitchen,  which  was 
all  done  up,  and  waiting  for  Sunday. 


GOOD  AT  A  HOLD-BACK.  63 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GOOD  AT  A  HOLD-BACK. 

ALL  the  girls  in  Fellaiden,  except  Sarell,  and  a  good  many 
of  the  older  women  were  more  or  less  overawed  by  the  outside  pre 
sentment  of  Hollis  Bassett.  They  thought  he  was  "  real  smart," 
a  notch  above  the  ordinary  measure  of  men  about  their  country 
neighborhood.  He  talked  high  and  large  to  everybody  but 
Sarell,  to  whom  he  ventured  the  same  things  with  a  certain 
cringe  of  self-distrust  and  bespeaking  of  support  or  even  tolera 
tion,  about  future  intentions.  He  was  n't  always  going  to  hire 
out  on  a  farm ;  no,  nor  farm  it  anyway.  Some  time,  and  before 
long,  he  meant  to  get  into  "  mercantyle  "  life,  buying  and  sell 
ing  ;  that  was  the  work  for  him.  There  was  a  chance  for  trade, 
now,  in  Wakeslow.  He  had  got  an  idea  when  he  was  down  to 
Boston ;  and  whenever  he  could  lay  by  a  little  something  that 
he  could  call  capital,  he  meant  to  show  'em  how. 

All  this,  and  a  good  deal  more,  asserted  with  that  fine,  free, 
confident  air  of  his,  impressed  his  ordinary  hearers  as  brilliant 
in  enterprise  and  wisdom.  It  was  only  Sarell  whom  he  could 
not  impress ;  because  he  failed  to  be  impressed  with  himself  in 
her  presence. 

Her  penetration,  her  judgment — and  he  felt  it  —  went  straight 
down  through  all  this  style  of  his  to  the  actual  capacity  under 
neath  ;  and  her  sentence,  pronounced  in  blunt  vernacular,  cut 
throxigh  to  the  quick  of  his  own  common  sense,  which,  after  all, 
underlay  his  fine  pretension.  For  she  was  not  even  misled  the 
other  way  by  his  small,  transient  flashiness;  she  knew  that, 
though  the  "  smartness  "  was  a  fiction,  and  his  ambition  in  clothes 
and  talk  a  folly,  the  man  could  do  a  man's  work  if  he  were  kept 
at  it,  and  that  his  would-be  knowingness  was  the  most  childish 
innocent  affectation  in  the  world.  "  If  she  did  not  take  him  in 


64  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

hand,  he  would  be  spoiled."  This  was  the  secret  of  her  interest, 
so  far  as  Hollis  Bassett  himself  was  concerned.  That  there 
was  other  matter  and  motive  which  had  caused  her  so  to  study 
and  possess  herself  of  her  character,  will  directly  and  without 
prolonged  mystery  appear. 

"  I  was  over  to  Wakeslow,  yesterday,"  remarked  Mr.  Bassett, 
as  they  came  safely  down  the  last  crooked  pitch  of  the  Hey- 
brook  Hill  into  Clark's  Hollow.  "  The  old  man  had  some  hay 
to  send  in.  I  did  n't  more  'n  half  like  my  errand.  'T  was  a 
mixed  lot,  as  uzhal.  The  corner  loft  was  swep,  over  into  the 
little  bay,  afore  the  new  loads  were  all  in.  Deacon  Amb's  an 
underwater  old  fellow,  that 's  a  fact." 

Sarell's  face  lit  up ;  not  that  she  was  "  rejoicing  in  the  ini 
quity,"  and  "  underwater  "-ness  ;  only  that  somehow,  when 
Hollis  Bassett  gave  himself  a  chance,  and  let  his  own  straight 
forwardness,  or  such  plain  power  as  he  did  possess,  appear,  it 
gave  her  an  instant  sense  of  comfortable  corroboration  in  her 
mind. 

The  next  sentences  were  not  so  satisfying,  however. 

"  I  talked  a  little  with  Goodsum ;  cautious,  you  know.  He  's 
got  a  hundred,  from  his  last  teaming.  He  'd  put  in,  fast 
enough.  And  that  little  house  of  Maxon's  is  finished,  and  he  's 
in.  The  corner  room  's  a  beauty,  winders  both  ways,  and  the 
door  and  the  steps  between.  I  don't  see  what  you  're  set 
against  it  for.  'T  would  jest  wake  up  Wakeslow." 

"  For  a  week,  maybe.  How  long  do  you  s'pose  't  would  take 
to  collect  all  the  dollar-bills  that's  layin'  round  loose,  out 
there  1 "  Sarell  spoke  with  supreme  contempt. 

"  0,  I  've  been  thinkin',  since  I  talked"  it  over  to  you  before." 
He  did  not  say  "  with  you "  :  it  was  a  careful  distinction  for 
Hollis.  "  Come  to,  I  would  n't  make  it  a  dollar-store,  nor 
yet  a  ninety-nine-cent  one.  Wakeslow  and  I  'd  be  a  good  deal 
of  a  muchness,  about  supply  and  demand,  I  guess.  I  'd  make 
it  n  forty — nine — cent  one  !  "  He  announced  his  grand  idea  with 
long  hyphens,  and  in  italics.  "  Nobody  's  tried  that,  anywhere, 
I  don't  believe.  It  would  jest  tell !  " 

"  I  'd  make  it  nineteen,  if  I  was  you,"  said  Sarell,  without 
the  least  enthusiasm,  "  or  nine.  Any  little  boy  can  play 


GOOD   AT   A   HOLD-BACK.  65 

shop,"  she  added.     "  I  presume  you  '11  get  your  money  back. 
But  I  don't  know  about  rent.     That  ain't  play." 

Hollis  gave  his  horse  a  flick  with  his  whip,  and  then  drew 
him  up  suddenly,  as  he  plunged  rather  unceremoniously  over  a 
water-bar. 

"  You  're  good  at  a  hold-back,"  he  said  to  his  companion, 
borrowing  the  severe  irony  of  his  rejoinder  from  the  circum 
stance  of  the  moment. 

"  It 's  a  good  thing,  going  down  hill,"  remarked  Sarell  «se- 
renely.  "  I  alwers  think  the  britchin  's  the  best  part  of  the 
harness." 

"Well,  then,  what  would  you  do,  Sarell  Gately?"  after  a 
pause. 

" "  I  'd  be  as  perlite  as  I  could,"  said  Miss  Gately,  coolly 
crushing  him  in  his  tenderest  pretension.  "  An'  then  I  'd  stay 
where  I  knew  I  was  some  use,  an'  safe,  fer  a  while,  an'  if  I 
wanted  to  keep  store  one  of  these  days,  I  'd  keep  store."  There 
were  barrels  and  bales  in  her  enunciation  and  emphasis ;  they 
made  Hollis  Bassett  feel  as  small  as  one  of  his  own  forty-nine- 
cent  packages. 

But  he  held  his  chin  up  presently  again,  —  a  handsome  chin, 
with  a  soft  dark  beard  about  it.  "  I  should  like  my  wife,"  he 
said  with  some  magnificence,  and  carefully  shunning  the  clip 
ping  of  his  words,  "  to  live  in  a  village,  amongst  folks  ;  in  a 
white  house  with  green  blinds,  and  my  name  on  a  door-plate." 

"  Well,  I  hope  she  will,  if  you  want  her  to,"  said  Miss  Gately, 
with  perfect  presence  of  mind  ;  "  only  1  don't  believe  the  way 
to  it  would  be  by  a  forty-nine-cent  store." 

Nevertheless,  the  picture  had  not  been  without  its  effect 
upon  her  farm-bred  imagination  ;  and  it  was  with  a  little  less 
superiority  that  she  diverted  the  conversation  with  the  inquiry, 
"  How 's  Mother  Pemble  these  times  1 "  and  then  added, 
with  significance,  "There's  more  responsibility  over  there  to 
East  Holler  than  you  mistrust,  Hollis  ;  there  ought  to  be  one 
honest  man  about  the  place,  an'  a  clear-headed  one,  for  all 
folks'  sakes." 

Hollis  wondered  in  his  secret  mind  what  on  earth  she  meant. 
But  a  man  never  lets  a  shrewd  woman  get  the  apparent  start 

5 


66  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

of  him.  At  least  he  never  thinks  he  does ;  he  answers  in  a 
hurry  to  her  suggestion,  perhaps  quite  setting  it  aside  in  his 
superior  keenness,  as  though  there  were  things,  notwithstand 
ing  her  cleverness,  that  he  cannot  quite  venture  to  discuss  fully 
with  her.  Perhaps  his  hurry  and  his  reticence  tell  their  own 
story,  and  she  has  her  own  little  counter-reserve  concerning 
his  sagacity. 

Hollis  spoke  quickly,  though  his  eye  shot  an  inquiry  in  ad 
vance  of  his  words,  and  his  face  was  blanker  than  he  knew  with 
surprise.  The  nod  of  his  head  came  a  little  behindhand  for 
due  effect. 

"  I  've  mistrusted  considerable,"  he  said,  in  a  wary  way. 
"  You  may  depend  everything  ain't  exactly  as  it  seems,  over 
there,  clear  through.  I  've  my  doubts  about  Mrs.  Newell  being 
quite  the  invaleed  she  makes  out  to  be."  And  there  he  paused 
a  second,  with  a  glance  again,  to  note  whether  he  had  hit  upon 
the  responsive  string.  "  /  b'lieve  she  gets  up  nights  an'  helps 
herself  in  the  pantry,  'r  else  what  keeps  her  so  fat,  while  she 
pecks  at  her  reg'lar  food  like  a  chicken  t " 

If  he  had  been  an  unmodified  Yankee,  he  would  have  said 
"  Mis'  Newell,"  and  "  victuals."  But  he  had  not  come  so  far  in 
his  culture  as  to  put  the  "  u  "  into  "  regular,"  or  to  be  content 
with  both  "  i "  's  alike  in  "  invalid."  It  is  interesting  to  watch 
the  little  steps,  and  corresponding  halts,  in  human  progress. 

Sarell  flashed  her  red  rose  and  her  bright  eyes  round  at 
him,  with  something  a  great  deal  more  definite  in  their  ques 
tion  than  his  own  tentative  glances  had  conveyed,  while  he 
stated  his  impression  ;  but  when  he  adduced  his  reasoning,  the 
grasp  of  her  expression  relaxed  out  of  her  face,  as  if  failing  of 
what  it  caught  at ;  and  she  said  with  impatience,  her  look 
turned  disregardingly  upon  the  wheel-tire  as  it  followed  the 
rut  on  her  side,  "  0,  if  that 's  all,  folks  that  are  fat  never 
air  great  eaters.  I  thought  mebbe  you  'd  really  noticed  some 
thing." 

"  Well,  I  have,"  returned  Hollis  slowly,  as  one  who  still  had 
a  large  fund  of  information  to  draw  on  at  discretion,  "  but  I 
never  thought  it  worth  while  to  take  notice.  It 's  hern,  fair 
enough,  if  she  wants  it ;  it 's  all  her  own  ;  but  why  don't  she 


GOOD  AT  A  HOLD-BACK.  67 

take  it  in  daylight  1  Only  night  before  last,  there  was  half  a 
custard  pie  in  the  back  buttery  that  was  gone  in  the  mornin' 
when  I  went  in  for  the  milk-pails,  and  'f  1  did  n't  hear  some 
body  up  and  round  underneath  my  room  that  had  petticoats 
on,  —  well  't  was  the  cat,  then  ;  or  the  rooster." 

"  Petticoats  !  "  ejaculated  Sarell  musingly.  And  then  she 
turned  full  face  upon  Hollis.  "  Don't  you  take  notice,  for 
your  life,  to  anybody  but  me.  But  do  you  notice  every  bit 
you  can,  and  tell  me.  There  's  queerer  things  than  ghosts  in 
some  families.  But  you  can't  prove  a  ghost  by  hollerin'. 
That  only  scatters  'em.  On  your  word  an1  honor,  Hollis, 
don't  tell  anybody  an  identical  word  but  me,  an'  tell  me 
everything !  " 

Hollis  laid  down  the  reins  in  his  lap,  and  returned  her  look 
in  sheer  astonishment.  Then  his  wise  pre-eminence  recollected 
and  reasserted  itself.  He  lifted  the  reins,  with  a  careless  twitch 
and  a  chuckle  to  the  horse. 

"  I  '11  see  about  it,"  he  said.  "  I  'd  sooner  obleege  you  than 
most  folks." 

"  See  you  do  then,"  said  Sarell  uncompromisingly,  perceiving 
quite  well  that  she  had  obtained  all  from  him  that  he  had  to 
give  at  present ;  and  she  dropped  the  subject,  with  the  interest 
and  the  mystery  all  on  her  own  side. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  they  drove  down  the  long,  green 
Valley  Street  of  Hawksbury. 


68  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   EAST  ROOM  AT  EAST  HOLLOW. 

MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  latch  was  down. 

Deacon  Ambrose,  coming  in  with  papers  in  his  hands,  through 
the  little  keeping-room  and  passage  beyond,  to  the  door  at  the 
end  that  opened  into  Mother  Pemble's  room  at  its  back  corner, 
found  it  so.  He  also  smelled,  as  he  stood  there  and  turned 
softly  the  useless  outer  knob,  an  odor  of  origanum  and  other 
pungent  oils. 

"  Ca-at ! "  he  sputtered,  letting  the  whisper  drop  from  the 
corners  of  senile-spreading  lips,  like  a  drool  of  acrid  poison  ; 
"  rubbin'  her  old  paws,  and  goin'  to  sleep  over  it !  She  would  n't 
wake  up  this  ha'af  hour,  'f  she  beared  me  comin'." 

So  he  released  the  knob  as  softly  as  he  had  tried  it,  turned 
noiselessly,  —  for  Deacon  Amb  was  of  the  cat  species  himself, 
and  had  a  way  of  slipping  off  his  out-door,  heavy  shoes  and 
entering  the  inner  rooms  with  woollen-stockinged  feet,  —  and 
went  down  the  blind  little  passage  to  the  keeping-room,  where 
he  slid  his  papers  into  the  inside  breast-pocket  of  his  stringy 
alpaca  coat,  took  the  last  number  of  the  Reade  Weekly  Watch 
word,  and  sat  down,  to  weary  out  contrariness  with  a  patience 
every  bit  as  contrary. 

"  One  for  the  last  play,  Mis'  Pemble  ! "  he  whispered  again, 
nodding  virulently  toward  the  open  passage.  "  'N  I  guess  I  '11 
hold  out  's  long  's  you  will,  'f  ye  air  laid  up  to  keep,  there,  so 
comfortable.  Ye  may  lay,  and  look,  and  listen  ;  an'  bedrid  folks 
may  last  forever,  s  they  say  ;  but  good  legs,  'n  keepin'  abaout 
on  'em,  's  a  better  resate,  'cordin'  to  my  notion.  'N  my  father 
was  ninety-nine  year  an'  six  days,  to  a  minute,  when  he  died." 

Mother  Pemble  had  heard  that  often  enough  ;   it  was  like 


THE   EAST   ROOM    AT   EAST   HOLLOW.  69 

"  Selah  "  in  the  Psalms,  to  the  deacon's  topics  and  sentences ; 
he  managed  to  get  it  in,  or  to  wind  up  with  it,  whatever  he 
began  with. 

But  "  things  ain't  never  as  you  count  on,"  Mother  Pemble 
said  to  herself.  "  He  's  got  that  ninety -nine  year  an'  six  days  so 
set  in  his  mind  that  he  '11  slip  up  in  one  of  the  seventies  yet, 
while  he  's  a  lookin'  forrud  to  it.  An'  if  there  ain't  a  cretur  sur 
prised,  there  never  was  one.  I  'd  like  to  be  a  fly  on  the  wall, 
in  t'  other  world,  to  see  him  come  in  ! " 

All  the  flies  in  Egypt  could  not  have  been  in  all  the  places 
where  Mother  Pemble  had  wished  herself  "  on  the  wall  "  in 
that  wise. 

Meanwhile,  she  was,  as  a  fly  on  the  wall,  in  the  "  east  settin'- 
room,"  with  the  big  "  seckerterry,"  against  the  opposite  wall, 
or  rather  against  the  door  into  the  front  passage  of  the  house, 
which  she  would  have  closed  in  that  way  when  she  first  took  to 
her  bed  and  her  imprisonment  here.  The  south  parlor,  oppo 
site,  had  a  second  enti-ance  from  a  little  porch  of  its  own,  through 
which  visitors  often  came  and  went.  Mother  Pemble  "  did  n't 
want  to  be  all  out-doors,"  she  said. 

The  east  room  was  large  and  pleasant  enough  to  dispense 
with  that  communication.  Its  two  windows  to  the  sunrise,  — 
a  little  south  of  east,  so  that  they  were  sunrise  windows  all  the 
year,  and  gave  long  moniings  of  instreaming  light  and  warmth 
even  late  into  the  winter, — and  its  one  wide  one,  with  sliding 
shutters,  to  the  north,  looked  out  brightly  across  broad  mead 
ows  on  the  one  side,  to  far,  beautiful,  wooded  hills  and  blue 
peaks  ;  and  on  the  other  up  against  a  near  sheltering  slope, 
that  was  green  now  with  huckleberry  pastures  and  pine  woods, 
and  in  the  winter  broke  the  force  of  wind  and  storm,  and  gave 
warm  shelter  upon  that  side  the  farmhouse.  There  was  a  re 
cess,  under  the  front  stair-landing,  beyond  the  secretary,  on  the 
same  side,  that  opened  through  a  closet  in  the  remaining  space 
under  the  same,  into  the  parlor ;  so  that  in  the  hot,  southerly 
days  she  could  have  the  breeze  through  there,  without  exposure 
or  intrusion  ;  for  her  bed  stood  in  the  east  corner,  with  the 
north  window  to  her  right  and  the  southeasterly  ones  to  her 
left,  as  she  lay. 


70  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

Mother  Pemble  was  very  particular  to  have  this  closet  door 
kept  bolted  on  her  own  side,  at  all  times  except  just  in  those 
"  not  spells  "  when  she  must  have  the  air  from  that  way.  At 
night  she  would  always  have  it  fastened.  The  big  secretary 
was  hidden  from  entire  view  by  the  high  footboard  of  the  bed 
stead.  She  could  not  see  what  Ambrose  drew  forth  or  stowed 
away  in  its  antique  receptacles,  when  he  sat  before  it,  fumbling, 
in  his  slow,  tiresome  fashion,  among  his  papers.  Ambrose 
chuckled  and  grinned  to  himself  over  this ;  and  would  doubtless 
have  long  ago  insisted  on  the  secretary  being  moved  elsewhere, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  satisfaction  of  keeping  his  affairs  and 
his  hidden  deposits  right  there,  "under  Mis'  Pemble's  nose,  as 
't  were,"  and  yet  utterly  beyond  her  observation  and  cognizance. 

Whether  foolishly,  or  with  a  sly  relish  of  some  sort  yet  deeper 
than  Uncle  Amb's,  she  gave  him  an  opportunity,  every  now 
and  then,  for  a  full  tasting  of  his  side  of  the  enjoyment. 

For  instance,  "  What  are  you  turnin'  over  there,  Amb  1 '' 
she  asked  at  one  time,  when  a  voluminous  rustle  of  some  clean, 
crisp  documents  had  struck  her  ear. 

"  Old  stiffikits,"  he  answered  her ;  and  then  came  a  thump, 
as  he  lifted  some  heavy  ledger  down  upon  the  desk  from  a 
higher  shelf. 

"  Old  fiddlesticks  ! "  she  returned,  but  not  out  and  out  crossly, 
either ;  for  Deacon  Amb  and  Mrs.  Pemble  were  always  pretty 
civil,  conversationally,  to  each  other.  "  What  do  you  want  to 
keep  'em  for,  let  alone  rummagin'  'em  up,  the  whole  durin' 
time  1 " 

"  0,  yer  never  know  when  things  may  come  up  to  be  of  conser- 
quence.  I  like  to  keep  old  scores  where  I  can  lay  hand  on  'em." 

"  Air  they  all  old  scores,  Ambrose  1  Air  ye  sure  ye  ain't  dip- 
pin'  into  anything  niew  ?  " 

"  What  'v  I  got  to  dip  with,  Mother  Pemble  ? " 

"0, 1  d'know,  yer  turnin'  things  over  all  the  time,  an'  ye  ain't 
bound  to  nobody.  Care'line,  she  ain't  got  the  curiosity  of  a 
miskeeter.  Not  half,"  she  emended,  as  the  excess  of  her  illus 
tration  occurred  to  her.  "  I  'd  like  to  be  a  fly  on  the  wall  up 
there  over  that  old  seckerterry." 

"  I  lay  ye  would,  Mother  Pemble,"  came  from  the  deacon,  in 


THE   EAST   ROOM   AT   EAST   HOLLOW.  71 

a  tone  that  showed  his  lips  were  wide  stretched,  and  vibrant 
with  an  inward  tickle. 

"  Ef  ye  die,  Amb,  leave  me  the  old  Seckerterry,  and  what 
ever  's  in  it,  will  ye  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  agoin'  to  die." 

"  What,  never  1 " 

It  was  before  the  days  of  Pinafore. 

"  Well,  not  in  your  time.  My  father  lived  to  be  ninety-nine 
years  an'  six  days,  to  a  minute." 

"  You  won't." 

"  Why  1 "  the  deacon  was  putting  together  and  tying  a  file 
of  papers,  and  eked  out  the  conversation  to  his  employment, 
which  he  was  thus  finishing. 

"  'Cause  yer  alwers  talkiu'  about  it ;  an'  things  that 's  alwers 
talked  about  never  come  to  pass." 

"  I  was  talkin'  about  my  father,  and  he  came  to  pass,  as  I 
tell  yer.  Ye  can't  alter  that  with  any  talkin'." 

The  deacon  shut  a  ponderous  drawer,  and  turned  the  key  in 
a  sounding  lock.  Then  the  bunch  of  steel  rattled  as  he  dropped 
it  into  the  depth  of  his  trousers  pocket.  He  turned  to  cross 
the  room  diagonally  to  the  keeping-room  passage. 

As  he  did  so,  he  stopped  short  on  the  other  diagonal,  between 
the  bed  with  Mrs.  Pemble  in  it,  and  a  little  door,  beneath  which 
a  wooden  step  protruded,  beside  the  chimney,  that  ran  up  in 
the  fourth  corner. 

"  How  come  that  on  the  jar  ] "  he  asked. 

"  Care'line  was  up  ther  yist'day  afternoon,  after  some  elder- 
blows  ;  'n  the  cat  come  down  this  mornin'.  She  never  latches 
a  door ;  an'  the  cat 's  forever  at  her  heels.  I  just  hev  t'  lay  here, 
t'  the  mercy  of  everything,"  she  ended,  turning  her  head  on 
the  pillow  with  an  articulated  sigh. 

"  That 's  so,",  said  the  deacon  blandly. 

The  door  that  was  ajar  only  led  up  into  a  little,  sloping  attic. 

Mother  Pemble's  extra  latch,  that  had  no  thumb-piece  on  the 
outer  side,  was  down,  now,  heavy  and  fast,  in  its  deep  iron 
catch ;  the  deacon  waited,  the  flies  buzzing  about  him  as  he 
read  the  Watchword,  and  the  smell  of  the  origanum  penetrating 
all  the  way  out  here. 


72  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

It  was  no  use  to  rattle  or  knock.  It  was  her  one  defence  and 
privilege ;  and  Mother  Pemble  asserted  it  to  the  utmost. 

The  door  was  across  the  room,  opposite  her  bed ;  but  a  stout 
linen  cord,  knotted  through  a  drill-hole  in  the  latch,  passed,  by 
means  of  a  couple  of  pulleys,  up  the  wall  and  along  a  beam  iu 
the  old  ceiling,  to  where  it  could  drop,  at  her  right  hand,  down 
to  a  brass  button  in  the  edge  of  the  bedstead  frame  beside  her. 
When  the  loop  in  the  end  of  the  cord  was  around  the  button, 
the  room  was  fast  against  intrusion.  Mother  Pemble  could 
sleep,  or  think,  or  patch  her  calico  pieces,  or  knit  her  shells,  or 
read  her  Bible,  —  which  she  actually  did  do  without  disturbing 
that  side  of  her  mind  upon  which  another  sort  of  latch  was 
down,  —  in  the  most  absolute  quietness.  When  the  loop  three 
inches  back  along  the  line  was  buttoned,  all  the  world,  that 
was  ever  welcome,  was  welcome  to  come  in.  And  Mother 
Pemble  was  clever  enough  not  to  drive  her  world  away  from 
her  by  fidgetiness  and  petulance.  She  only  "  would  have  her 
own  time  to  herself  when  she  wanted  it,"  she  said,  "  sence  't  was 
all  she  could  have,  in  the  way  of  independence." 

True,  she  had  her  "  kicksy-wicksy  "  days,  as  Sarell  has  said  ; 
days  when  it  was  "  clear  torment  for  her  to  lay  still  and  keep 
herself  out  o'  things  that  she  knew  she  could  straighten  out  if 
she  was  only  round  amongst  'em  "  ;  for  she  kept  the  run  of  all 
that  went  on  in  the  household,  and  the  hitches  in  the  run 
ning,  and  had  a  word  upon  most  matters,  as  much  as  ever. 
How  tormenting  it  was  for  her  to  submit  to  her  outward  inac 
tion,  perhaps  no  one  with  all  her  "  kicksy-wicksiness "  could 
comprehend.  Wherefore,  as  her  easy-going  Care'line  said  about 
it  to  the  deacon,  in  slow,  soft  speech,  with  her  mouth  far  parted 
in  her  vowel  emphasis,  "  We  must  take  all  things  into  con 
sideration." 

"  That 's  so,"  the  deacon  would  assent,  quite  comfortably, 
in  like  manner  as  he  assented  to  its  being  "  to  the  mercy  of 
everything  "  that  she  did  lie  there  so  helpless. 

"  The  ways  of  Providence  is  the  best  ways,"  he  was  wont  to 
declare  with  meekness. 

When  Mother  Pemble  heard  him  say  that,  a  queer  gleam  of 
satisfaction  would  come  into  her  restless  gray  eyes,  as  if  she 


THE  EAST   BOOM  AT  EAST  HOLLOW.  73 

and  Providence  had  some  private  and  more  express  under 
standing. 

She  had  a  good  deal,  moreover,  in  the  way  of  independence, 
besides  her  seclusion  at  will.  She  would  do  all  for  herself — 
and,  to  do  her  justice,  a  good  deal  for  other  people  —  that  two 
hands  in  the  stationary  radius  of  the  reach  of  hers  could  do. 

She  diligently  rubbed  the  hands  and  the  arms  with  the 
strengthening  liniment,  "  to  hold  on  to  what  was  left  of  her." 
The  lower  limbs  were  supposed  to  rest,  almost  helpless,  beneath 
the  bedclothes.  Not  paralyzed  exactly,  she  always  insisted 
upon  that,  but  as  good  as  paralyzed  with  the  weakness  of  dis 
use.  For  the  trouble  that  had  "settled  in  her  back"  seven 
years  ago  had  prevented  her  from  lifting  herself  to  a  support 
ing  attitude  all  that  time.  She  had  given  up  to  her  necessity, 
and  turned  her  capableness  to  the  devising  and  directing  of 
every  little  means  for  rendering  her  establishment  comfortable 
to  herself,  and  the  care  of  it  easily  manageable  by  others. 

Her  bed  was  double  ;  one  half  was  thoroughly  made  up  while 
she  lay  upon  the  other.  And  a  swing  sacking,  in  the  place  of 
a  sheet,  raised  and  lowered  by  pulleys,  passed  her  from  one  side 
to  the  other,  and  was  then  unbuckled  at  its  corners  and  drawn 
away,  leaving  her  upon  the  fresh  one ;  whose  corners,  in  turn, 
were  buckled  to  corner  straps  upon  the  mattress,  making  a 
smooth,  unruffleable  spread  beneath  her,  so  essential  a  comfort 
to  an  invalid,  and  could  remain  so  fixed  for  several  days. 

A  large  shallow  bag,  which  nobody  ever  meddled  with  but 
herself,  hung  at  her  hand  by  the  bed-frame.  Here  she  had  her 
handkerchiefs,  her  liniment  and  other  bottles,  her  knitting-work, 
and  all  the  small  appliances  and  accumulations  of  her  circum 
scribed  existence  and  occupations.  When  she  wanted  these 
cleared  out  or  disposed  of,  she  attended  to  it  as  one  of  her 
diversions.  She  was  "sufferin'  neat,"  as  Elviry  said,  and  kept 
all  these  heterogeneous  affairs  purely  distinct,  undefiled,  and 
undefiling.  Every  bottle  was  tightly  corked  and  scrupulously 
dried  to  a  clear  polish ;  every  piece  and  bit  rolled  away  in  its 
proper  separation.  "It  was  wonderful  how  few  rags  and  towels 
she  did  use,  considerin'  all  her  rubbin'  and  hand-washin',  and 
meal-takin'  in  bed." 


74  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

A  lap  table,  with  socket  holes  and  upright  edges,  came  down 
and  ascended  again,  at  her  own  touch,  between  the  ceiling  and 
the  bed  before  her,  with  convenient  furnishings  ready  set;  a  flat 
drawer  in  it  held  napkins  and  towels.  A  washbowl,  set  in  the 
mouth  of  a  dark-wood  cylinder,  which  held  a  capacious  recepta 
cle  for  the  waste  from  it,  was  arranged  with  a  lid  which  could 
be  pushed  around  aside  upon  a  swivel ;  and  the  whole,  mounted 
on  three  short  legs  with  casters,  constituted  a  lightstand  table. 
The  swivel-rod  at  the  back  branched  above  into  a  support  for  an 
upper  shelf,  upon  which  stood  a  water-jar  with  a  faucet.  This 
had  been  an  intricate  study  and  a  sublime  achievement  between 
herself  and  the  cabinet-maker  of  Reade.  A  smaller  basin  of  tin, 
which  she  could  set  before  her  upon  the  bed,  and  a  little  dip 
per,  hung  at  the  side  of  the  cylinder. 

Specific  mention  of  these,  as  among  the  arrangements  by 
which  the  recluse  could  help  and  amuse  herself,  with  her  skilled 
and  yet  active  hands,  in  really  quite  a  little  housekeeping  of  her 
own,  will  enable  the  credit  and  comprehension  of  possibility  in 
regard  to  certain  things  that  must  have  been  possible  to  the 
enactment  of  her  part  in  all  that  follows,  to  be  told. 

There  was  nothing  but  the  most  primitive  simplicity  in  them 
all ;  no  plumber  or  modern  mechanic  would  ever  have  so  contrived 
them ;  they  were  like  a  hundred  household  devices  and  expedi 
ents  usually  confined  to  dairy  and  kitchen,  not  'extended  to 
personal  luxury  or  indulgence,  which  these  farmer-folk  set  at 
•work  to  serve  their  turn,  without  waiting  for  machinist  or 
patent.  Mother  Pemble  had  thought  them  all  out,  one  by  one, 
as  she  came  to  the  requirements  which  they  answered.  A  few 
gimlet  and  auger  holes,  bits  of  pipe,  hooks  and  pulleys,  carried 
them  into  operation ;  the  old  raftered  ceiling  and  solid  wood 
work  of  her  room  gave  hint  and  place  for  their  appliance. 

The  neighbors  thought  they  were  "  dreadful  'cute,  and  must 
save  the  other  womenfolks  a  sight  of  work "  :  that  was  all. 
Nobody  regarded  them  as  in  the  least  allied  to  pretence  or 
splendor ;  though  with  a  little  concealment  of  their  easy  gear, 
or  refinement  of  external  form,  they  might  figure  among  the 
last  touches  of  exquisite  invention  in  any  fine  city  palace, 
where  living  is  sublimated  almost  above  the  hindrance  or  re 
minder  of  any  common  needs. 


THE  EAST  KOOM  AT  EAST   HOLLOW.  75 

Mother  Pemble  washed  her  own  cups  and  saucers  and  spoons ; 
replaced  them  upon  her  table,  and  swung  the  table  up  out  of 
her  way.  She  rinsed  out  her  bits  of  linen  and  flannel.  She 
made  her  own  tea  with  the  "  sperrit  lamp,"  whenever  she 
wanted  it,  which  was  apt  to  be  at  very  odd  hours ;  odder,  may 
be,  than  the  household  knew.  Whatever  else  she  did,  that 
perhaps  gave  object  and  relief  to  her  monotonous  restraint,  may 
come  in  in  its  further  order  and  relation. 

She  accomplished  the  family  mending  and  quite  a  vast 
amount  of  useful  and  ingenious  making,  with  needle,  knitting- 
pins,  and  rug-hook. 

"  I  don't  get  any  more  done  for  me  than  I  do  back,"  she  said 
often  to  others,  and  yet  more  often  to  herself.  She  seemed  to 
keep  some  kind  of  account,  in  this  wise,  with  her  conscience ; 
perhaps  with  the  Bible,  that  lay  beside  her  on  the  lightstand. 

When  at  last  the  big  latch  clicked  upward,  this  afternoon 
that  Deacon  Ambrose  waited,  he  waited  on  some  fifteen  minutes 
longer. 

"  She  's  in  more  of  a  tiew  th'n  I  am,"  he  said  complacently, 
to  himself;  then,  having  secured  knowledge  that  he  could  enter 
at  his  pleasure,  without  betraying  his  waiting  and  watchfulness 
by  any  second  ineffectual  trial  at  the  door,  he  even  slipped  on 
his  heavy,  shuffling  shoes  again,  picked  up  his  straw  hat,  and 
walked  out  at  the  end  door  and  around  past  her  north  window, 
toward  the  barnway. 

Mother  Pemble  contracted  the  muscles  of  her  upper  lip,  as 
his  shadow  went  across  her  daylight,  so  that  the  tip  of  her  nose 
elevated  itself,  and  the  nostrils  expanded,  with  a  fine,  amused 
scorn. 

"  'Z  if  I  could  n't  see  through  that ! "  she  said  to  herself. 
"  He 's  got  something  more  'n  common  to  stow  away  or  to 
git  aout,  he  's  so  turrible  unconcerned.  'N  to-merrer  's  Hawks- 
berry  day,  'm  —  'm  !  " 

She  knit  on ;  half  a  white  shell  for  the  pretty  bedspread 
that  she  was  making,  of  soft,  smooth,  slender  cotton  cord. 

"  Heap  it  up,  heap  it  up  !  yer  don'  know  who 's  t'  gether  it 
and  that 's  a  fact !  nor  haow  !  "  she  added,  with  a  silent  laugh, 
that  showed  good  firm  teeth  and  the  only  two  wrinkles  in  her 


76  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

cheeks,  that  were  but  the  lengthened  and  deepened  dimples  of 
her  youth.  "  There  's  other  things  savin'  up  that  ye  don't  calk'- 
late  on.  What  might  'a  been  all  wore  out  by  this  time,  and 
Care'line  left  t'  shift  f'r  'erself.  'T  ain't  bus'lin'  raound  that 
brings  things  t'  pass,  alwers,  not  even  in  haousework.  —  You 
save  up  dullars,  and  I  '11  save  up  years ! "  and  the  still  laugh 
came  again. 

She  dared  say  that  to  herself  and  laugh  that  laugh,  with  that 
bound  word  of  the  Lord  of  all  days  and  years  lying  beside  her 
at  her  right  hand,  wherein  she  read,  "The  fear  of  the  Lord 
prolongeth  days ;  but  the  years  of  the  wicked  shall  be  short 
ened."  And,  "  Behold,  the  day  of  the  Lord  cometh  as  a  thief 
in  the  night." 

Such  things  men  and  women  do  read  in  the  Scripture  of  the 
Book,  and  of  events  all  around  them,  and  yet  set  their  own 
word  and  their  own  act,  as  things  separate  from  the  line  and 
order  of  God's ;  or  somehow  able  to  establish  their  motive  and 
security  upon  some  partial  point  or  base  of  his  law,  along 
side  their  unshakable  certainties. 

-  Ambrose  Newell  was  a  self-seeking,  secret  man  ;  he  was  to 
be  circumvented.  That  was  a  piece  of  everlasting  justice. 
"  Why  was  he  to  keep  his  goods  back,  and  the  good  of  'em,  all 
his  life  long,  and  turn  clear  honest  only  after  he  was  dead  and 
could  n't  care  1 "  Mother  Pemble  would  see  to  that.  She 
thought  the  circumvention  lay  in  her  hands.  "After  he 
was  dead,  it  would  be  other  folks'  turn  to  care,  and  to 
make  up  their  minds.  'T  wan't  to  be  his  say,  whose  rights 
came  fust  and  whose  was  biggest.  'F  he  did  put  it  all  inter 
pussonal." 

Ambrose  came  in,  and  unlocked  the  old  piece  of  furniture  at 
its  grooved  front,  that  rolled  back  from  before  its  pigeon-holes 
and  drawers  in  the  way  imitated  again  of  late  years,  let  down 
the  desk-board,  unlocked  and  pulled  out  the  deep  right-hand 
drawer  below  it,  sat  down  in  the  big  armchair  with  its  sheaf- 
shaped  carved  bars  at  the  back, —  an  heirloom  in  itself  to 
modern-antique  covetousness, —  and  settled  himself  and  his 
handful  of  papers  for  work. 

There  was  an  elliptical  space  between  the  corner-post  of  the 


THE   EAST   ROOM   AT   EAST   HOLLOW.  77 

bedstead  and  its  scrolled  footboard  that  was  in  one  solid  middle 
piece,  through  which  Mother  Pemble,  over  her  glasses  and  her 
knitting,  could  see  his  right  arm  and  hand,  and  that  right-hand 
drawer,  projected,  open,  below  the  desk-board.  Her  needles 
clicked  indefatigably ;  her  eyes  as  indefatigably  followed  every 
movement  in  that  half  view. 

The  deacon  drew  a  wallet  and  a  pair  of  scissors  from  a 
pigeon-hole.  Mother  Pemble  saw  the  clear  shine  of  the  steel 
as  he  took  them  down  from  their  upper  corner,  and  again  the 
lip-muscles  shortened  and  the  nostrils  spread. 

A  quiet  unfolding  of  some  crackling,  parchment-like  sheet, 
and  —  after  a  reflective  interval  such  as  a  careful  man  is  apt  to 
observe  between  the  taking  out  of  his  pocket-book  and  the 
abstraction  of  any  of  its  money  contents  —  a  soft  clipping,  with 
an  inevitable  gentle  rustling,  followed. 

"  What  'r  ye  doin',  Ambrose  ] "  asked  the  old  lady,  as  she 
always  asked. 

The  deacon's  lips  stretched  in  the  opposite  way  from  that  of 
the  uplifting  of  her's.  The  long,  in-fallen  line  between  the 
shrunken  jaws  grew  longer  and  set  tighter,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  in  a  corresponding  lengthening  and  closure  of  their 
lids. 

From  between  the  lips,  in  sound  as  if  he  held  a  pin  between, 
came  the  answer, —  such  a  one  as  usual, — "  Cutt'n  up  old 
papers,  mother.  Wan' t'  make  some  lamplighters  1 " 

"  Some  time,  p'r'aps.     Not  now,  Arab." 

Then  the  scissors  clipped  again ;  cut  slowly,  rather,  as  a  man 
uses  them  ;  with  as  much  accent  in  the  opening  as  in  the  closing 
of  the  blades. 

"  Them  scissors  squeak,  Amb.  Ain't  ye  'fraid  they  '11  tell 
somethin'  1 " 

"  Scissors'  all  right,  mother." 

"  Then  you  squeak,  handlin'  of  'em.     Somethin'  squeaks." 

Mother  Pemble's  longitudinal  dimples  were  very  deep,  with 
her  pleasure  at  her  own  deep  under-meaning. 

"  Ther  's  alwers  something  squeaks  when  I  'm  busy  at  this 
'ere  seckerterry,"  returned  Uncle  Amb,  his  facial  parallel  of 
latitude  extending  itself  in  correspondence  with  Mother  Pern- 


78  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 

ble's  meridian  lines.  If  they  could  have  seen  each  other  they 
might  have  enjoyed  their  game  still  more.  Perhaps  they 
would  have  had  to  play  it  yet  deeper. 

"Ambrose,"  said  the  old  lady,  after  a  pause  in  which  she  had 
knotted  off  one  shell,  laid  it  aside  in  the  little  basket  on  her 
table,  and  -increased  her  first  single  stitch  toward  another  by  a 
few  turnings  to  a  number  that  held  her  needle  comfortably 
well,  "  I  should  n't  be  a  mite  surprised  —  sha'!  I  've  missed  a 
stitch  !  —  I  should  n't  be  a  single  mite  surprised  —  and  I  b'lieve 
my  heart  you  air  —  ef  you  was  a  cuttin'  off  cowponds." 

"  'F  I  was,  I  guess  yer  heart  'd  hev  y'  aout  an'  afoot  to  see 
abaout  it,  'f  ye  hed  t'  go  thriew  a  hoss-pond ! "  And  Uncle 
Amb  folded  up  the  crackling  paper. 

"'Taint  the  age  o'  merricles;  'n  yit  ther  might  be  sech  a 
thing 's  't  I  sh'd  be  aout  n'  abaout,  f  'r  all,  afore  I  die.  'F  I 
ain't,  I  will  be  after,  'f  ye  don't  keep  things  straight  an'  above- 
board,  Ambrose  Newell,  —  'n  I  go  fust.  That  I  tell  ye." 

"  Ye  'd  like  to  be  a  fly  on  the  wall,  would  n't  ye  7 "  retorted 
the  deacon,  rising  up  and  rolling  forward  the  secretary  front 
again,  and  turning  the  key,  shutting  and  locking  the  deep 
drawer  also,  as  he  folded  back  the  desk-lid.  "  Ye  'd  buzz, 
would  n't  ye  ?  Well,  I  should  n't  kind  o'  wonder  ef  't  was  what 
ye  would  be,  'f  the  Lord  saves  all  the  pieces,  an'  makes  the 
taost  he  can  out  o  'm." 

"  I  s'pose  ye  know  what  kind  o'  stuff  calls  the  flies  the 
most,  deacon.  An'  ef  there  's  any  buzzin  after  you,  't  '11  be 
because  o'  somethin'  in  the  natur'  o'  things,  I  persume." 

Mrs.  Pemble  always  called  her  son-in-law  "  deacon "  when 
she  gave  him  the  most  despiteful  thrusts.  The  deacon  in  him 
was  truly  the  thing  she  despised  most  of  all. 

The  tall  secretary,  with  its  age-dark,  polished  front  and 
cresting  carvings,  its  three  bright,  pineapple-shaped  gilt  knobs 
on  the  three  highest  points  of  these,  stood  straight  and 
massive  and  still,  holding  its  secrets ;  and  the  deacon  walked 
away,  his  keys  jingling  in  his  pocket. 

The  old  lady,  whom  he  left  lying  there  in  a  Tantalus  plight 
that  was  safety  and  exultation  to  him,  however,  and  the 
more  because  it  was  bitterly  aggravated  penance  to  her,  waited 


THE  EAST  ROOM  AT  EAST  HOLLOW.        79 

till  she  heard  him  go  away  out  through  the  keeping-room  to 
the  shed-kitchen,  where  a  swing-door  flapped  to  after  him. 

Then  the  knitting-work  dropped  upon  the  counterpane ;  a 
hand  reached  to  the  cord  and  the  brass  button,  changed  the 
loops,  and  the  iron  latch  fell  with  a  small  clang ;  the  gray  eyes 
gave  a  swift  glance  to  the  muslin-shaded  windows,  right  and 
left,  whose  weighted  lines  hung  over  the  high,  uncurtained 
frame  of  the  bedstead,  to  be  also  within  her  command ;  and  the 
figure  of  the  woman  raised  itself  straight  up  from  her  pillows, 
and  sat  erect. 

"When  I  come  even  with  him,"  she  said, —  Mother  Pemble 
talked  much  to  herself  in  her  imprisonment,  iu  a  low,  careful, 
monotonous  voice,  without  ever  thinking  of  the  convenience  of 
the  present  chronicle, —  "  the  only  damper  '11  be  that  he  won't 
be  here  to  know.  'Less  —  ther  's  no  telliu' —  it  might  come  so 's 
't  he  'd  be  fixed  some  as  I  be,  fer  awhile.  I  might  be  gitt'n 
abaout,  's  he  'd  be  clampin'  daown.  I  'd  like  t'  be  sett'n  't  that 
seckerterry  once,  when  he  could  n't  do  nor  say  nothin',  only 
look !  The  world  's  a  troublesome  kentry,  but  it  turns  itself 
over  every  day :  we  must  jest  wait,  'n  see  how  the  times  rolls 
raound ! " 

She  sat  half  an  hour  in  her  erect  position ;  then  she  short 
ened  the  latch-cord  again,  and  laid  herself  back  as  they  always 
saw  her. 

She  drew  the  muslin  shades  up  also.  The  rosy  reflection  of 
the  sunset  light  was  full  upon  the  soft  clouds  that  were  floating 
away,  over  the  distant  woods,  against  the  breasts  of  the  great 
hills.  The  bare  scarp,  even,  of  storm-whitened  granite  on  the 
top  of  the  north  ridge  was  flushed  with  a  lovely  pink.  Over 
its  line  lay  the  mellow  saffron-green  that  spread  along  the  sky 
from  where  the  sun,  still  far  up  in  the  summer  latitude,  was 
going  down  in  an  ocean  of  pure  gold. 

"  It 's  a  charmin'  pleasant  evenin',"  Mother  Pemble  said  wist 
fully,  looking  out  into  that  sereneness  of  pure  atmosphere  and 
the  glory  that  infilled  it.  She  sighed  as  she  said  it,  as  one 
might  sigh  who  had  lost  the  freedom  of  sunsets  and  sweet, 
warm  atmospheres,  except  as  they  might  creep  in  to  her,  with  a 
kind  of  pitying  mercy,  through  door  and  casement,  or  glow 


80  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

down  upon  her  from  afar,  in  mere  scraps  and  hints  of  that 
which  was  widening  and  shining  all  round  the  blessed  bend 
that  held  and  brooded  over  the  fruitful,  sky-seeking  hills. 

"  It 's  a  pleasant  time  ;  but 't  ain't  my  time.  I  '11  hev  t'  wait 
f 'r  that.  Well,  it's  a  good  day  that 's  alwers  comin'.  It  '11  be 
fair  to-morro',  f 'r  Ambrose  t'  go  t'  Hawksberry." 

And  with  that,  those  sinister  old  wrinkle-dimples  deepened 
up  her  cheeks  again,  and  her  eyes  took  a  cold,  malign  bright 
ness,  like  the  steely  glitter  of  low-lying,  dangerous  water,  in 
secret  clefts  where  a  true  dayshine  never  comes. 

She  did  not  look  at  the  sunset  color  afterward.  When  she 
remembered  it  again,  it  had  slipped  from  the  hill-tops  and  the 
cloud-edges,  and  they  were  gray  with  falling  shadow. 

Yet  away  down  in  the  west,  where  she  could  not  see, — 
having  shut  herself,  of  her  choice,  to  the  shady  side  of  her 
world, —  there  were  purples,  and  flecks  of  flame,  and  here  and 
there,  between  the  mountain-swells,  sweet  pools  of  distant 
amber,  lying  still  and  clear,  like  lakes  of  heaven. 


THE  GREAT   PYRAMID.  81 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   GREAT   PYRAMID. 

ONE  night,  Miss  Tredgold  stayed  out  walking  and  talking 
with  Rael  till  it  was  late,  France  waited  for  her,  wondering, 
with  a  letter  that  had  come  for  her  by  a  chance  hand  from  the 
village  from  the  later  mail. 

They  had  gone  down  into  what  France  called  "  The  Pleas- 
aunce,"  —  a  great  natural,  park  of  noble  groups  of  elms  upon  a 
slope,  and  spreading  through  a  hollow,  turfed  with  crisp  pas 
ture  grasses,  toward  the  brook -side.  A  tangle  of  birches  and 
alders  and  catbrier  fringed  the  limit  here,  and  hid  the  brown, 
shallow  water,  across  which  a  great  scatter  of  white  boulder- 
stones  gave  way  for  crossing  to  the  pretty  cedar  woods  that 
climbed  the  steep  hill  on  the  other  side.  France  had  seen  them 
from  the  window  of  Miss  Ammah's  room,  and  she  felt  an  irri 
tated  jealousy  of  Miss  Ammah's  monopoly.  "  I  wonder  if  she 
thinks  I  'm  not  fit !  Or  if"  —  "  she  fancies  it  would  n't  do,"  were 
the  words  half  shaped  in  her  mind,  and  for  which  she  gave  her 
self,  with  a  gasp,  a  mental  clutch  upon  the  throat.  "  An  old 
woman  can  do  anything  !  a  young  one  can't  get  to  be  friends 
with  —  people  —  till  —  well,  I  suppose  you  can  sympathize,  any 
time  ;  but  there  can't  be  much  freshness  in  it !  " 

She  did  not  know  what  freshness  in  Miss  Ammah,  at  fifty- 
five,  was  answering  at  that  moment  to  the  words  of  the  man  of 
twenty-three,  just  finding  himself  out  to  be  a  man,  with  a 
man's  need  and  hope  in  life,  and  not  only  his  father's  and  moth 
er's  boy,  good  boy  as  he  had  been  and  meant  to  be. 

"  I  shall  keep  on,"  he  said.  "  I  had  no  notion  of  taking  my 
hand  from  the  plough.  Only,  if  you  had  thought  my  plan  pos 
sible,  —  that  I  could  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  do  both  things. 
But  I  see ;  it  would  n't  only  be  to  pay  off  this,  and  clear  the 

6 


82  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

farm.  Father  '11  be  getting  old,  and  mother  must  n't  have  to 
work  so  hard  always.  I  must  help  them  make  the  farm  pay 
afterward.  Miss  Tredgold,  it 's  been  a  great  lift,  anyway,  hav 
ing  you  come  here  these  summers.  I  would  n't  have  missed  it ; 
but  I  suppose  it 's  like  all  lifts  :  it  makes  it  harder  to  drop 
back,  if  you  must  drop." 

"  Why  drop,  Rael  ?  No  one  ever  need  do  that  from  any  real 
lift." 

Rael  smiled  gravely  in  the  twilight. 

"  There 's  a  natural  body,  and  there  's  a  spiritual  body,"  he 
said.  "  It 's  a  wrench  to  have  the  inner  man  drawn  up,  and  the 
outside  fellow  kept  down  by  a  contrary  pull  then." 

Miss  Tredgold  did  not  instantly  reply  to  that. 

"  I  've  had  Mr.  Kingsworth,"  —  Mr.  Kingsworth  was  the 
rather  unusual  minister,  and  Israel's  strong  friend,  —  "  and  I  've 
had  you.  And  this  summer  "  —  a  long  hesitancy  here  —  "I  've 
realized  more  than  ever  that  I  could  n't  be  quite  as  happy  always, 
after  knowing  such  people,  if  you  were  all  to  go  away,  and  none 
such  were  ever  to  cross  my  road  again.  I  'm  not  feeling  myself 
above  my  neighbors,  Miss  Tredgold  ;  but  I  feel  that  there  are 
folks  above  us  all.  And  it  '11  take  a  lot  to  satisfy  me  now,  — 
to  settle  down  amongst.  —  I  shall  have  to  —  " 

Still  Miss  Tredgold  kept  silence. 

"  I  only  meant,"  he  resumed,  tossing  off  his  words  now  in  a 
quick,  careless  way,  as  if  they  but  illustrated  the  present  con 
scious  feeling,  and  had  no  present  point  or  feeling  of  their  own, 
"  that  some  time  I  shall  have  to  marry.  Farmers  all  do.  And 
a  man  ought  n't  to  be  able  to  think  of  any  other  possible  woman 
as  above  his  wife,  you  see." 

"  I  see,"  Miss  Tredgold  answered  slowly,  and  not  instantly. 
"  And  that  a  man  oughtn't  to  be  able  to  think  of  any  shape  of 
home  and  life  that  the  woman  he  marries  cannot  help  him 
make.  Yes,  I  see  all  that.  But  it  will  be  made  straight,  Rael ; 
if  you  do  the  right  thing,  it  can't  lead  anywhere  but  right.  And 
there  are  two  concerned,  remember ;  God  cares  for  that  woman 
who  should  be  your  wife,  wherever  she  is,  as  much  as  he  cares 
for  you." 

"  God  bless  her  ! "  broke  from  Rael's  lips  impulsively,  and  he 


THE   GREAT   PYRAMID.  83 

put  up  his  hand  and  slightly  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head.  Miss 
Ammah's  words,  and  the  heart  in  them,  brought  him,  for  the 
moment,  spirit  to  spirit  as  if  face  to  face  with  that  woman 
unknown.  Yes,  really  unknown ;  for  the  woman  he  had  seen 
this  summer  stood  to  his  conscious  thought  as  scarcely  more 
than  a  revelation  of  possibility ;  yet  the  possibility  had  come 
close  enough  to  make  him  pray  that  prayer. 

They  came  up  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  last  group  of  elms,  to 
the  bar-place  and  to  the  roadway ;  they  did  not  talk  any  more, 
and  seemed  to  France,  still  watching  from  the  window,  quite 
prosily  and  stupidly  trudging  along  on  the  opposite  edgeways  of 
the  soft  brown,  deep-rutted  road. 

Miss  Ammah  was  saying  to  herself,  "  It  has  been  a  perfect 
shame  of  me  !  blind,  old,  blundering  ninny  !  but  what  shall  I 
do  now  1 " 

Miss  Ammah  did  that  which  was  foreordained  ;  she  could  not 
have  done  a  cleverer  thing,  perhaps,  if  she  had  planned  it. 
She  carried  a  cold  up  with  her  from  that  lovely,  sweet-smelling, 
treacherous  brookside  ;  she  managed  to  put  a  fatigue  on  top  of 
that  within  a  day  or  two ;  and  with  all  the  rest,  she  kept  on 
worrying  and  calling  herself  names.  When  Sunday  came  round, 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  "  give  up  to  it  "  ;  she  set  her  room  in 
perfect  order,  to  the  last  small  furnishing  of  dressing  and  washing 
table,  put  a  fresh  ruffled  sacque  and  plaited  cap  on,  measured 
out  for  herself  two  kinds  of  homoeopathic  medicines  in  two  tea 
cups  with  time-dial  covers,  placed  them  on  her  lightstand  with 
her  Bible  and  her  eye-glasses  and  her  "Christian  Register" 
that  had  come  the  night  before,  —  and  lay  down  upon  her  bed, 
where  she  never  moved  from  the  first  position  she  fell  into  for 
three  whole  hours. 

"  Resting,"  she  told  France,  when  France  looked  in  and  won 
dered  ;  and  shut  her  eyes  in  such  determined,  effigy-like  still 
ness  that  the  girl  felt  ordered  to  go  away,  and  went.  But  by 
noon  the  languor  had  become  a  fever,  and  France  went,  fright 
ened,  to  Mrs.  Heybrook,  and  Mrs.  Heybrook  "  took  hold  "  ;  not 
withstanding  which  prompt  and  capable  assistance,  the  three 
hours'  rest  settled  and  prolonged  itself  into  a  three  weeks'  seri 
ous  illness. 


84  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 

The  first  week,  France  was  visible  only  in  the  kitchen  when 
she  came  there  to  get  the  beef-tea  that  stood  ready,  or  to  pre 
pare  a  gruel  or  a  whey,  or  sitting  solitary  at  her  corner  of  the 
table  in  the  dining-room,  snatching  a  brief  meal.  Then  came 
a  night  or  two  of  anxious  watching,  when  nobody  really  went 
to  bed,  except  Lyman  and  the  old  farmer,  when  Sarell  kept 
things  hot  in  the  kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Heybrook  "  camped  down  " 
in  France's  bedroom,  trying  to  take  turns  with  France,  who 
would  not  give  up  her  turn  at  all,  and  Israel  lay  on  the  lounge 
in  the  best  room  below,  with  the  doors  all  open,  that  "  anybody 
might  «peak  to  him  at  any  minute."  And  those  nights  France 
found,  every  two  hours  at  least,  the  water-pitcher  in  the  hall 
way  at  the  stairhead  changed  for  one  fresh  from  the  cold, 
delicious  well,  and  twice  each  vigil  some  dainty  bit  of  food 
newly  placed  in  a  dish  beside  it. 

The  second  week,  Rael  began  to  bring  field  and  forest  deli 
cacies  :  now  a  few  far-fetched,  late,  north-side  ripened  straw 
berries  ;  again,  the  earliest  raspberries,  sought,  one  by  one 
almost,  on  the  sunniest  arches  of  vines  sunniest-sheltered  to 
the  south ;  then  a  trout,  just  out  of  the  water,  whose  delicate, 
pale-pink  flesh  came  up  from  the  broil  like  a  bit  of  the  breast 
pf  a  tender  little  bird  :  and  at  France's  table-corner,  morning 
and  evening,  was  always  a  dish  of  the  fruit  she  was  fondest  of, 

—  picked  currants,  the  biggest  and  ripest  from  each  cluster, 
full-juiced  from  the  stems  they  had  drunk  through  within  five 
minutes. 

The  third  week,  they  began  to  amuse  and  talk  with  Miss 
Ammah ;  and  Rael  came  into  the  room,  and  read  aloud  various 
things  that  the  minister,  who  called  often  to  inquire,  had  lent 
him,  or  that  Miss  Ammah  had  been  looking  at  and  talking 
about  with  him  before.  And  France  sometimes  sat  downstairs 
in  the  broad  back  piazza  hours  together,  while  he  was  above 
there  or  Miss  Ammah  "  rested  "  —  sweet  convalescent  rest  now 

—  alone,  with  a  hand-bell  on  the  stand  beside  her,  to  touch  if 
she  wanted  anybody,  or  sat  in  the  great  pillowed  easy-chair, 
napping  and  waking  alternately,  with  Mrs.  Heybrook  and  her 
afternoon   patchwork   keeping   her   company   in   the   opposite 
corner. 


•THE   GREAT   PYRAMID.  85 

It  was  in  this  third  week  that  France  stumbled  upon  the 
Great  Pyramid.  She  found  it  on  the  settee  there  one  day,  — 
Piazzi  Smyth's  wonderful  book  of  "  Our  Inheritance."  It  had 
Bernard  Kingsworth's  name  on  the  fly-leaf :  of  course,  Rael  Hey- 
brook  was  reading  it. 

She  turned  it  over  wonderiugly,  trying  to  get  an  idea  of  it 
from  its  chapter-titles  and  grand  Scripture  prefixes.  She  read 
the  preface,  where  the  "  parable  in  mathematical  and  physical 
science"  is  spoken  of,  and  the  "stones  put  together  in  vocal  and 
meaning  shapes,"  to  be  correctly  read  in  the  fulness  of  time, 
and  "  bear  witness  in  the  latter  days."  She  looked  curiously  at 
the  illustrations,  the  Great  Pyramid  "  at  the  centre  and  border 
of  the  sector-shaped  land,"  "  Egypt  in  the  geographical  centre 
of  the  land-surface  of  the  world,"  the  plans  of  the  circles  of 
the  heavens  above  the  Great  Pyramid,  at  the  far-off  epochs  of 
antiquity,  showing  the  places  of  the  polar  stars  and  the  Pleiades 
and  the  equinox,  as  they  could  be  only  at  vast  recurrent  cycles. 
She  got  vague  hints  of  a  tremendous  thought  at  once  sacred 
and  scientific,  wrapped  in  terms  and  demonstrations  of  a  knowl 
edge  that  she  could  not  handle  or  interpret ;  and  she  opened 
where  the  leaves  fell  easily  apart,  at  marvellous  suggestions  and 
applications  of  noble,  universal  standards  of  measure  for  line 
and  weight  and  time,  based  upon  solar  distance  and  planet- 
density,  making  God's  measures  and  man's  measures  identical  in 
absolute  truth  ;  at  proofs  and  prophecies  of  things  that  are  and 
shall  be  ;  and  at  the  figuring  forth  of  the  Great  Pyramid  wait 
ing,  silent,  with  all  this  word  in  it,  —  this  "sign  and  witness 
unto  the  Lord  of  Hosts  in  the  land  of  Egypt." 

She  was  fond  of  mathematics  and  astronomy,  —  what  she 
knew  of  them.  She  was  fascinated  by  their  grand  general  de 
ductions  always.  She  lost  herself  in  these  strange  pages,  which, 
if  quite  sure  and  true  in  what  they  put  forth,  should  be  as  a 
revelation  to  the  whole  world;  and  she  wondered  that  she  came 
upon  the  book  here  in  this  farmhouse  among  the  hills,  lent  out  of 
the  library  of  a  country  minister  for  the  reading  of  a  country 
youth,  who  drove  his  plough  to  field  in  the  springtime,  and 
toiled  all  day  under  the  hot  summer  suu  to  gather  hay  into  his 
father's  gray  old  barns. 


86  ODD,   OR   EVEN?        • 

While  she  sat  there,  as  gentle  a  picture  as  Lady  Jane  Grey 
may  have  been  over  her  old  Plato,  —  the  look  in  her  face  of  one 
illumined  by  a  great  sunrise  toward  which  she  turned  new,  won 
dering  eyes,  —  Israel  Heybrook  came  out  from  the  sitting-room 
door,  and  stood  in  the  other  end  of  the  piazza.  She  turned 
her  head,  graceful-modest  with  soft,  simple  lines  of  hair  swept 
back  over  the  temples  and  ears,  and  rolled  together  low  behind. 
The  high,  stylish  crown  and  puffs  had  disappeared  during  all 
these  weeks  of  nursing.  Somehow,  in  that  small  difference  even, 
it  had  seemed  as  if  a  fence  were  down.  Any  way,  she  looked 
as  a  woman  only  can  look  when  she  is  not  "  stylish,"  but  purely 
and  sweetly  feminine. 

"  Do  you  understand  all  this1?"  she  asked  him. 

He  came  and  stood  by  her  side.  She  moved  along  the  old 
red  settee,  and  he  sat  down  in  the  place  she  made  for  him.  So 
she  turned  the  leaves  over  and  back  to  passages  that  had 
struck  her  attention,  or  where  marks  were  made,  and  she  had 
studied  over  some  paragraphs. 

"  See  this,"  she  said,  "  about  the  English  farmer's  '  quarters ' 
for  his  wheat-measures,  —  that  they  are  simply  quarters  of  the 
capacity  of  the  coft'er  in  that  '  king's  chamber '  in  the  heart  of 
the  pyramid  that  this  man  thinks  was  set  there  for  a  true 
measure  for  all  people  to  deal  with.  And  see  this,  about 
capacity-measure  founding  itself  upon  the  whole  bulk  of  the 
earth,  taking  a  fraction  of  its  diameter  for  unit,  while  line- 
measure  takes  a  fraction  of  the  radius,  the  line  along  which 
they  measure  between  the  centres  of  sphere  and  sphere  !  And 
see  this  about  the  Pleiades  year,  the  great  cycle  counted  out  in 
the  pyramid  inches,  a  year  to  an  inch,  across  these  enormous 
diagonals !  And  see  this,  about  the  lidless,  empty  coffer  :  why, 
it  makes  you  think  of  the  stone  rolled  away  from  the  tomb ! 
And  this,  about  Melchisedek  being  the  builder  of  it  all.  And 
here  at  the  end,  the  pyramid  prophecy  of  the  time  coming, 
when  people  shall  not  suffer  or  go  wrong  any  more  under  any 
sort  of  wrong  ruling !  Are  these  things  really  what  is  meant, 
and  are  they  meant  in  earnest,  and  do  you  understand  1  Why ! 
if  there  is  such  a  book  in  the  world,  why  does  n't  everybody 
know  of  it1?  And  why  aren't  we  all  starting  for  Egypt,  to 


THE   GREAT   PYRAMID.  87 

make  the  beginning  of  the  new  world-nation,  the  People  of  the 
Great  Pyramid  ?     And  what  is  a  pyramid  inch  1 " 

It  was  a  thorough  woman's  rush  of  question,  self-answering  per 
ception,  impatient  enthusiasm,  and  return  to  a  very  A,  B,  C 
of  inquiry  at  the  end. 

Rael  smiled  his  odd,  grave  smile,  and  answered  her  last  query 
but  one,  —  her  grand  demand.  He  spoke  as  simply  as  if  it  had 
been  something  about  his  farm  or  his  harvest.  "  To  the  '  He 
brews  of  the  Hebrews,'  you  know,  Jerusalem  is  everywhere. 
Maybe  that  is  why  the  pyramid  is  in  the  land-centre  of  the  whole 
earth.  It 's  a  sign  for  the  whole  of  it." 

Then  they  turned  the  book  over  together,  and  he  showed  her 
some  of  the  links,  the  reasonings,  the  numbers,  —  the  things  she 
meant  when  she  had  asked  him  "  did  he  understand,"  and  then 
had  broken  forth  with  what  she  had  perceived  without  under 
standing.  He  supplied  to  her  elemental  ignorance  the  pyramid- 
inch,  the  key  to  the  mystical  correspondence  of  the  year-measure 
and  sun-distance  and  earth-density,  and  so  to  the  cosmic  stand 
ards  set  forth  for  line  and  time  and  cubic  contents  of  all  things, 
when  all  things  shall  be  compared  in  pure  truth  and  righteous 
ness. 

"  And  so  the  standards  themselves  are  signs  !  "  she  exclaimed 
ardently.  "  And  the  pyramid  does  tell  of  the  whole  truth 
coming;  because  weights  and  measures  aren't  so  much,  just 
for  themselves.  It's  the  relation,  the  balance,  the  rule  in 
everything  that  is  sure  to  be  worked  out.  Oh,  I  can't  say  it, 
but  it  is  glorious !  And  the  lidless  coffer,  the  sarcophagus 
measure,  is  the  measure  of  a  man  ;  that  is,  of  a  man  raised  up ; 
that  is,  of  an  angel !  " 

At  this  moment  the  Reverend  Bernard  Kingsworth  walked 
into  the  dooryard.  He  heard  the  last  quick  sentence,  and  his 
eyes  lighted  up  ;  his  whole  face  smiled,  meeting  that  of  the  girl. 
When  Bernard  Kingsworth  smiled,  there  was  a  wonderful 
shining. 

What  shall  I  do  ?  He  came,  and  they  went  on  talking,  catch 
ing  as  they  could  the  light  that  fell  upon  these  mighty  ideas.  I 
should  like  you  to  hear  something  of  what  they  said,  but  you 
will  tell  me,  as  I  have  been  told  before,  that  I  "sermonize," 


88  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

that  people  don't  talk  so  every  day.  Granted ;  but  there  are 
days,  and  there  are  people,  and  there  are  such  golden  grains  in 
all  the  falling  sands  of  common  days,  if  we  will  only  pick  them 
up ;  so  that,  for  my  part,  I  can  no  more  tell  a  story  of  any  real 
living  and  keep  the  word  of  life  out  of  it  than  Mr.  Dick  could 
keep  Charles  the  First's  head  out  of  his  memorial.  So  that,  in 
consequence,  they  who  care  for  my  memorial  must  take  the 
head  with  it,  and  maybe  learn  how  it  fits  in,  —  in  the  influence 
and  history  of  things. 

They  talked,  then,  of  the  world  measures  ;  of  these  densities 
and  distances  and  motions,  so  exact,  so  related ;  of  the  meas 
ures  in  the  making  of  everything  ;  of  how  the  measures  are  the 
making  —  in  music,  in  chemistry,  in  every  art  and  science ;  of 
the  literal  steps  in  creation,  the  ladder  in  the  planet  itself  that 
geologists  sound  and  climb  by ;  the  silurian,  the  sandstone,  the 
chalk  measures  ;  of  the  steps  to  an  end  that  men  can  call  by  no 
other  significant  name,  —  legal  measures,  political  measures, 
measures  of  prudence,  of  safety,  of  attainment,  of  understanding. 

"True  measure  is  true  everything,"  Mr.  Kingsworth  said. 
"  It  is  the  very  law  of  God.  And  so  he  puts  his  law  into  the 
least  of  men's  acts  and  dealings,  that,  learning  and  living 
it  there,  they  may  climb  up  to  all  knowledges  and  affections  ; 
faithful  in  the  least,  the  mere  wheat  measures,  they  shall  come 
to  live  and  rule  among  the  greatest ;  to  handle  divine  causes,  to 
take  from  God's  hand  and  build  by  his  will,  He  building  by  them 
and  in  them  the  glory  that  is  to  be  revealed.  That  is  the  prom 
ise  of  the  pyramid,  written  in  stone.  At  the  heart  of  it  is 
man's  truth  with  his  neighbor,  the  one  fair  measure  for  all  with 
all.  The  whole  of  it  tells  the  secrets  of  the  stars." 

"  There  is  another  kind  of  measure,"  said  France  thought 
fully,  "  the  measure  that  the  world  seems  most  in  a  tangle 
about.  There  will  have  to  be  a  great  pyramid  measure  of 
things  and  people,  —  what  they  are  worth  in  real  comparisons. 
Those  measures  are  all  upside  down,  I  think." 

"  I  think  you  touched  that  in  what  I  heard  you  say  as  I  came 
up,  Miss  Everidge,"  said  the  minister.  "  The  measure  of  a 
man,  —  a  man  raised  up  ;  that  is,  of  an  angel.  The  spiritual 
measure  is  the  measure  of  a  man,  and  of  the  things  of  a  man. 
There  is  no  other." 


THE  GREAT   PYRAMID.  89 

"  And  people  never  go  by  it,  at  least  against  the  things  that 
stand  in  sight." 

"  Because  man  has  made  false  signs,  false  values,  and  has  let 
them  stand  for  him.  '  God  sent  a  man  with  a  measuring  line 
in  his  hand '  '  to  measure  Jerusalem  '  in  the  sight  of  the  prophet. 
And  he  sent  a  message  by  another  angel  after  him,  'Deliver 
thyself,  0  Zion,  that  dwellest  with  the  daughter  of  Baby 
lon  ! '  " 

"  There  will  have  to  be  a  great  giving  up,  such  as  people  will 
never  agree  to  make,  before  it  can  be  set  right,"  said  France. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  where  the  chief  mistake  is,"  returned  Mr. 
Kingsworth.  "A  great  deal  of  giving  up  has  been  preached 
where  giving  place  might  have  been  truer.  I  must  go  back  to 
Ezekiel  again.  He  saw  in  the  vision  a  Man  whose  appearance 
was  as  of  brass  ;  he  stood  in  the  gate  of  a  house,  and  he  meas 
ured  all  the  building  with  the  reed  in  his  hand.  All  the  little 
chambers  and  doorways  and  arches  and  pillars,  and  every  least 
part  was  in  its  place  in  the  proportion  of  his  measuring  reed ; 
and  the  Great  Gate  looked  toward  the  East,  where  the  glory  of 
God  came  in  ;  and  at  the  end  he  said,  '  Show  the  house  to  the 
House  of  Israel,  that  they  may  be  ashamed  of  their  iniquities,  and 
let  them  measure  the  pattern.  This  is  the  law  of  the  house ; 
upon  the  top  of  the  mountain  the  whole  limit  thereof  shall  be 
most  holy.  Behold,  this  is  the  law  of  the  house.'  We  do  see 
persons  here  and  there,  I  think,  Miss  Everidge,  who  measure 
life  and  things  and  people  by  the  pyramid  inch  and  cubit." 

"  I  thought  of  that,"  said  Israel,*  "  when  I  came  across  Miss 
Tredgold's  name  here  in  the  Book  of  the  Pyramid." 

"  Miss  Amman's  ! "  France  exclaimed,  surprised. 

"  Yes,  exactly,"  Rael  answered,  turning  the  leaves.  "  And  I 
found  the  rest  of  it  in  the  dictionary.  '  Ammah  '  is  '  the  first, 
the  foundation,  the  mother  measure ' ;  and  in  the  dictionary 
'Ammah  '  is  '  abbess,  or  spiritual  mother.'  " 

"Well,"  remarked  France  consideringly,  "I  should  think 
Miss  Ammah  is  a  pyramid-inch  woman.  She  does  go  for  reali 
ties,  and  reckons  by  foundation  rules.  But  for  an  abbess,  a  spirit 
ual  mother,  —  I  don't  think  she  is  particularly  sanctified." 

"  Have  n't  we  just  been  finding  out  that  righteous  inches 


90  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

make  the  whole  righteous  stature  and  structure  1 "  asked  the 
minister,  smiling.  "  I  don't  doubt  much  about  Miss  Ammah's 
sanctification.  Would  she  be  able  to  see  me,  do  you  think,  this 
afternoon  1 " 

France  went  up  to  ask.  The  minister  and  Rael  Heybrook 
exchanged  a  word  or  two  about  her  while  she  was  gone.  When 
she  came  back  and  invited  Mr.  Kingsworth  to  go  up  stairs  with 
her,  Rael  stood  still  a  minute,  alone,  and  then  went  off  to  his 
milking.  He  was  thinking — with  two  brown  pails  swinging 
from  his  two  brown  hands  —  of  spiritual  statures ;  and  some 
thing  occurred  to  him  that  was  like  a  swift  measuring  of  these 
statures  in  the  man  and  the  woman  who  had  just  left  him,  — 
that  as  a  man  and  a  woman  should  be  in  height  and  fair  propor 
tion  to  each  other,  Bernard  Kingsworth  and  Frances  Everidge 
were. 

Frances  Everidge,  in  her  northwest  room,  looking  from  her 
roof-window  over  the  piazza,  saw  Rael  with  his  milk-pails  as  he 
walked  with  head  bent  slightly  down.  She  was  half  impatient 
of  the  other  man,  sitting  there  in  the  room  beyond,  in  his  nice 
clerical  black,  free  to  follow  the  profession  he  chose,  free  to 
study  out  the  thoughts  that  attracted  him.  She  was  half  jeal 
ous  that,  with  more  prepared  and  perfect  speech,  he  had  even 
helped  her  just  now  to  understand  those  splendid  things.  How 
modestly  Rael  Heybrook  had  given  way  to  him !  Yet  how 
clearly  the  young  farmer  had  shown  her,  just  before,  about  the 
pyramid-inch  and  the  squared  circle  and  the  twenty-five-inch 
cubit ! 

"  He  wants  to  be  an  engineer,"  she  was  thinking  to  herself, 
while  she  watched  the  bent-down  head  and  the  old  straw  hat 
vanished  from  her  clairvoyance,  "  and  he  almost  got  to  it.  Well, 
he  is  one,  if  he  does  carry  milk-pails.  And  I  think  engineering 
is  the  noblest  thing  in  the  world.  It 's  the  power  the  world 
was  made  by.  If  the  man-measure  was  only  just  set  right,  — 
well,  then  I  suppose  we  should  measure  even  milk-pails  differ 
ently." 


BRACKETS  AND  INTERLINES.  91 


CHAPTER   XI. 

BRACKETS  AND   INTERLINES. 

THERE  came  down  a  letter  within  a  week  after  to  Princeton, 
•where  Mrs.  Everidge  and  the  little  ones  were  staying ;  which, 
after  reading,  the  mother  sent,  as  family  correspondence  was 
accustomed  to  go  around,  to  her  elder  girls  at  Magnolia  and 
Mount  Desert.  At  the  bottom  of  the  last  written  page,  she 
put,  in  pencil,  a  "  ?  ".  It  went  from  Helen  to  Euphemia  with 
a  "  !  ",  beneath  the  interrogation.  But  Euphemia,  fast  grow 
ing  to  be  the  wise  woman  of  the  family,  sent  it  back  to  her 
mother  with  this  —  "  [  ] "  —  below  them  both.  Now 

the  reader  shall  have  the  much-annotated  epistle,  and  make 
her  own  pointings  upon  it,  or  fill  the  brackets,  as  only  readers 
can. 

"  MY  DEAR  MAMMA,  —  Miss  Ammah  is  gaining  splendidly. 
She  has  been  twice  to  drive,  and  she  has  her  hammock  and  her 
easy-chair  upon  the  piazza  now,  and  spends  nearly  all  the  day 
there.  Do  you  know,  I  have  found  out  what  her  very  odd 
name  means  in  the  Hebrew  ]  It  is  an  '  original  measure,'  the 
'  mother-measure '  of  things.  Is  n't  that  true  of  Miss  Amman's 
judgments'?  It  is  in  a  very  curious  book  that  they  have 
here,  and  that  I  am  reading  now ;  trying  to  read,  I  ought  to 
say,  for  it  is  making  great  pretension  to  say  just  'reading  it/ 
as  if  it  were  any  ordinary  book,  and  I  could  'riddle  it  all  out/ 
as  Sarell  says,  as  fast  as  I  can  spell  the  words.  Mr.  Kings- 
worth,  the  minister,  whose  '  Jerusalem  sermon '  I  told  you 
about,  lent  it  to  Israel  Heybrook,  the  farmer's  son.  It  seems 
queer  that  a  farmer's  son  should  go  into  such  things ;  but  he 
was  beginning  to  be  an  engineer,  and  had  to  come  back  to  help 
work  out  a  debt  on  the  farm.  Mr.  Kingsworth  has  explained 
some  of  it  beautifully  to  us.  He  is  very  kind  ;  he  often  calls 


92  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

to  see  Miss  Ammah,  who  knew  him  in  Northampton,  when  he 
preached  there.  But  I  have  n't  told  you  what  the  book  is.  I 
hope  they  '11  put  it  into  the  club,  for  our  readings  next  winter, 
if  we  can  only  catch  some  mathematical  professor  to  explain  the 
calculations,  and  anybody  the  least  bit  able  to  tell  the  meanings 
as  Mr.  Kingsworth  can.  It 's  perfectly  wonderful ;  it  would 
turn  the  world  upside-down  —  I  mean  right-side  up  —  if  every 
body  could  really  and  truly  get  hold  of  it.  It 's  a  whole  Bible 
in  stone ;  '  a  revelation  in  the  only  language  that  never  has  to 
be  translated,'  Mr.  Kingsworth  says.  It  is  called  '  Our  Inheri 
tance  in  the  Great  Pyramid  ' ;  but,  of  course,  I  can't  begin  to  tell 
you  about  it,  only,  every  line  and  every  measure  and  every  bit  of 
proportion  in  it,  and  its  place  on  the  globe,  and  its  pointings  to 
the  stars,  are  true  to  some  wonderful  exactness  of  a  fact,  and 
that  fact  is  true  to  everything  under  the  sun ;  and  everything 
under  the  sun  has  got  to  be  put  in  proportion  to  it  some  time 
or  other,  down  to  the  milk-measures  and  the  pound-weights. 
And  when  everything  is  weighed  and  measured  right,  inside 
and  out,  and  put  where  it  belongs,  great-pyramid  .fashion,  the 
millennium  will  have  come.  Mr.  Kingsworth  preached  another 
grand  sermon  about  it,  from  '  Be  ye  perfect,  as  your  Father  in 
heaven  is  perfect.' 

0  mamma,  you  ought  all  to  come  some  time  to  Fellaiden.  I 
don't  half  dare  to  put  it  in  your  heads,  for  I  feel  as  if  we  should 
have  no  right  to  come  rushing  in  here  upon  Miss  Amman's  pre 
emption  ;  but  if  you  ever  did  come,  you  would  want  to  come 
again,  and  to  keep  coming,  and  to  keep  staying.  It  is  better 
than  the  White  Mountains,  because  these  mountains  are  so 
green  and  lovely  to  their  very  tops,  and  one  does  n't  put  all  the 
others  out,  as  the  White  Hills  do.  You  can  look  off  among 
them  and  down  among  them,  and  the  mists  and  the  rains  and 
the  sunset  colors  go  spilling  and  floating  about  in  the  valleys 
and  hollows  of  them,  and  they  are  just  singing  with  cascades 
when  everything  else  is  still.  The  Sundays  are  too  exquisite 
for  anything.  I  told  you  about  the  ride  to  the  Centre,  and  how 
the  Centre  looks,  just  under  the  ridges  of  a  great  hill-circle,  at 
this  edge  of  it.  Have  I  ever  told  you  about  the  acre  of  maiden 
hair]  I  have  pressed  heaps  of  it;  a  pile,  between  papers,  a 


BRACKETS   AND  INTERLINES.  93 

yard  high,  up  in  the  garret,  with  a  board  and  four  stones  upon 
it  to  keep  it  down.  And  Israel  Heybrook  has  brought  some  of 
the  loveliest  spleen-worts  for  us,  from  some  way-off,  rocky, 
brooky  places  where  the  farm  goes,  —  dwarf  and  silvery  spleen- 
worts  ;  I  don't  think  the  girls  have  ever  had  any  like  them. 
The  lilies  are  blossoming  now  in  the  ponds;  we  have  a  bowl 
ful  on  a  stand  here  on  the  piazza.  And  there  is  a  place 
quite  near,  where  they  say  it  will  be  blue  with  gentians ;  and 
in  another  month  or  two,  the  maples  will  begin  to  turn,  and 
then  I  am  sure  this  Heybrook  farm  will  be  like  some  kind  of  a 
Sinbad  or  Aladdin  country,  with  hills  of  precious  stones  and 
avenues  of  ruby  and  topaz  columns.  The  very  cow-lane  is 
planted  with  sugai'-maples,  —  a  superb  shade  of  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  from  the  barns  to  the  edges  of  the  pine-woods. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  all  this  in  snow  and  ice,  and  to  sleigh- 
ride  up  and  down  these  pitches ! 

"  I  would  write  you  about  the  family,  if  I  thought  I  could 
make  you  know  them  so.  Helen  would  have  to  find  something 
besides  '  upper  and  under  and  middling,'  to  class  such  people 
by.  If  our  upper  kind  are  on  one  height,  these  are  on  a  height 
of  their  own.  They  are  not  'educated,'  at  all,  except  the 
boys  ;  but  they  are  pretty  well  '  brought  out '  by  their  living 
among  these  free,  fresh  things  ;  and  the  boys  are  brought  out 
both  ways.  I  think,  mamma,  we  are  apt  to  respect  the  things 
most  people  have,  —  their  place  or  their  money,  or  their  good 
manners  or  their  learning;  but  I  certainly  do  respect  these 
Heybrooks  themselves. 

"  Miss  Ammah  thinks  she  shall  stay  until  October. 

"  Love  to  papa  and  the  little  ones,  to  you  all.  I  am  glad 
you  are  all  having  such  good  times  of  your  own.  I  should  be 
just  flying  with  fidgets  to  have  mine  without  you,  if  you  were  n't. 

"Your  loving  daughter, 

"  FRANCE." 

It  was  certainly  pretty  well  for  general  cheerfulness  and  ful 
ness  of  accounting  for  it,  considering  the  three  weeks'  illness 
and  watch  just  over.  But  it  was  over,  and  that  always  makes 
people  glad  ;  also,  that  had  been  told  in  the  time  of  it,  when 


94  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

sickness  and  health  bulletins  were  all  that  could  be  dispatched. 
Now  the  flowers  and  the  ferns,  and  the  maples  and  the  moun 
tains,  crowded  in. 

France  looked  it  over  before  she  sent  it  off.  She  could  n't 
help  finding  herself  out  just  a  little.  She  was  conscious  there 
were  some  things  bracketed  out.  "  But  of  course  I  could  n't 
put  everything  into  eight  pages,  even,"  she  said  to  herself.  I 
think  it  hardly  entered  her  head  to  begin  at  once,  in  such  ne 
cessarily  slight  and  casual  representation  of  things,  upon  pyra 
mid-inch  and  proportion. 

Perhaps,  if  any  but  a  Boston  girl  had  written  all  that  about 
the  pyramid  and  the  millennium,  there  would  have  been  a 
family  de  lunatico  to  sit  upon  her.  But  the  inquirendo  here 
was  as  to  the  country  minister,  and  what  Miss  Tredgold  could 
be  about  —  now  that  she  was  about  —  to  let  the  aft'air  —  no, 
the  possibility  of  an  affair  —  go  on;  no,  not  that,  either,  but 
even  distantly  threaten  to  begin. 

So  Miss  Tredgold  received  a  letter  presently,  written  with  in 
visible  interlines,  wherein,  under  merest  friendlinesses  and  words 
of  very  gracious  course,  — little  news  of  the  other  girls,  and 
far-off  sketching  of  winter  plans,  —  there  ran  a  tone  of  hint  and 
caution:  "France  is  apt  to  go  so  furiously  after  one  thing; 
don't  let  her  study  too  deep  into  the  mathematics  and  archae 
ology  she  seems  to  have  got  hold  of.  I  don't  want  those  head 
aches  to  come  back  again."  And,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  able 
for  drives  and  little  excursions  again.  France  tells  me  of  lovely 
views  and  places  that  you  so  enjoy.  I  am  thankful  for  her, 
too,  I  am  sure.  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  her  if  she 
were  shut  up  by  your  being  shut  up  ;  and  of  course  she  must  de 
pend  upon  you,  as  there  seems  to  be  no  very  suitable  way  for  her 
to  get  about  much  without  you."  Quite  far  on  from  that,  mixed 
up  with  a  quantity  of  mere  mention,  came,  "I  hope  France 
does  n't  bother  that  kind  Mr.  Kingwood  too  much.  What  a 
remarkable  person  he  seems  to  be  for  such  a  perfectly  out-of-the- 
way  little  parish  !  And  that  reminds  me,  —  would  n't  you  both 
like  to  have  some  parcels  of  books  from  Loring's  1  They  come  up 
here  ;  we  exchange  them  once  a  fortnight  by  the  express.  I 
suppose  you  get  the  '  Atlantic '  and  the  '  Transcript '  regularly  ? " 


BRACKETS   AND   INTERLINES.  95 

And  the  postscript  was,  "  Do  you  really  think  you  shall  stay 
so  late  as  into  October1?  I  shall  be  back  for  the  little  ones' 
school  by  the  fifteenth  of  September,  perhaps  earlier." 

"Why  don't  she  say  right  out,  'Keep  the  girl  out  of  that 
minister's  way,  and  don't  let  her  ride  round  with  the  farmer's 
sous '  1 "  said  Miss  Ammah,  who  could  n't  stand  being  dictated 
to,  and  who,  if  such  a  word  had  come,  would  have  packed 
France  off  to  Princeton  by  the  next  coach  and  train,  although 
she  knew  there  was  no  room  for  her  there,  and  it  would  be  an 
utter  break  with  France  and  her  family.  But  she  liked  the 
girl,  and  she  could  ignore  the  hints  ;  so  she  only  had  it  out  with 
herself  in  a  sharp  soliloquy,  which  she  ended  with  a  laugh. 
"  Perhaps  if  she  knew  of  the  Kingsworths  of  Montreal,"  she 
said,  "  and  that  old  General  Kingsworth,  the  uncle,  was  worth 
his  half  million,  and  only  this  namesake-nephew  and  a  niece  to 
leave  it  to,  she'd  scruple  less  about  the  'bother,'  and  might 
make  out  to  remember  his  name  right."  Here  the  laugh  came 
out  loud,  and  France  heard  it  in  the  next  room,  and  asked  what 
it  was  about,  of  course  ;  for  in  this  curious  world  nobody  can 
ever  laugh,  any  more  than  they  can  shriek,  without  accounting 
for  it.  And  the  pyramid-inch  woman  only  said,  looking  out  of 
the  window  for  an  escape,  "  The  old  gray  cropple-crown  has 
coaxed  one  of  the  buff  hen's  chickens  over  the  fence  again,  and 
Mrs.  Buff  has  flown  after  her,  and  pulled  the  best  feather  right 
out  of  her  cap.  She  looks  awfully  meek  without  it.  It 's  dread 
ful  to  be  a  disappointed  old  cropple-crown,  and  to  have  to  go 
about  borrowing  other  hens'  chickens  !  " 

But  if  she  spoke  in  parables  made  to  her  hand  for  wisdom's 
sake,  she  talked  straight  enough  to  herself,  without  any  para 
ble  at  all. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  girl  has  written  to  set  them  out  1  And  I 
wonder  how  far  I  am  responsible1?"  she  asked  inwardly.  "Am 
I  to  go  right  away  with  the  child,  because  here  is  a  man  in  a 
black  coat  and  another  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  who  may,  either  one 
of  them,  get  the  worst  of  it  1  for  I  don't  believe  France  will, 
any  way.  But,  then,  how  could  I  tell  what  might  happen  on 
the  very  journey1?  There  are  all  sorts  of  railroad  accidents. 
No;  I'm  on  my  own  straight  course,  and  everybody  else  is  on 


96  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

theirs ;  she 's  here  with  me,  with  advice  and  consent,  and  the 
rest  belongs  to  Providence,  and  the  steering  of  those  whom  it 
concerns.  It 's  part  of  the  history  of  France,  too ;  and  France 
is  old  enough  to  take  care  of  her  own  politics.  I  've  no  right  to 
stave  off  any  of  her  experience.  If  I  thought  Rael  would  suffer, 
—  that 's  what  did  trouble  me,  but  here  steps  in  the  minister 
to  cure  him.  Rael  's  giving  way  already  ;  and  Rael  is  n't  a  fool, 
to  give  up  his  own,  even  his  own  in  his  own  heart,  if  he  knew 
it.  His  own  may  be  on  the  road  :  -France  Everidge  is  just 
showing  him  that  it  is  n't  here,  among  these  Fellaiden  girls.  If 
France  should  take  the  minister,  —  I  mean  if  Bernard  Kings- 
worth  would  take  her,  —  I  know  how  that  would  be  reconciled 
fast  enough.  And  if  it  was  written,  beyond  my  foresight  and 
without  my  planning,  that  the  other  could  possibly  be,  why,  it 
would  be  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it  would  n't  be  so  marvellous  in 
my  eyes  that  I  could  n't  fall  in  with  it.  No,"  she  added,  as  if 
by  a  suggestion  that  reached  farther,  "  nor  be  an  accessory  after 
the  fact,  if  Providence  signified  that  it  wanted  me.  I  don't  owe 
an  atom  of  accountability  to  any  scare  of  worldly  calculation 
against  Providence.  And  yet,  it  does  make  an  old  cropple- 
crown  feel  fussy  to  get  another  hen's  chicken  over  the  fence, 
and  then  see  it  running  under  the  brambles." 

With  such  reasoning  and  the  present  necessity,  Miss  Ammah 
quieted  herself,  and  the  history  of  France  went  on. 

France  had  found  herself  out  just  thus  far  :  that  the  many 
speculations  she  was  conscious  of  concerning  this  anomalous 
young  farmer-gentleman  —  for  it  was  the  question  of  the  rec 
oncilability  of  such  a  term  that  kept  coming  up  to  her  —  were 
not  at  all  submitted,  or  allowed  their  relative  place,  in  what  she 
had  written  home  of  the  Fellaiden  people.  Still,  it  was  only  one 
of  the  sort  of  puzzles  that  always  had  puzzled  her,  and  that  at 
home  they  never  entered  into  the  least  bit ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  would  be  sure  to  "think  things  that  had  no  sense  in 
them  "  if  she  mentioned  it.  What  the  precise  things  without 
sense  were,  in  her  mind,  she  did  not  stop  to  sound  for ;  she 
only  said  sturdily,  "Of  course,  it 's  nothing  to  me,  anyway  ;  but 
I  should  like  to  understand  a  little  better  the  queer  world  I  've 
been  born  into." 


THE  RED  QUARRIES.  97 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE   RED   QUARRIES. 

Miss  AIIMAH  grew  quite  strong.  The  great  three  weeks' 
haying  was  just  over  :  there  was  a  lull  in  farm-work  and 
house-work.  Miss  Ammah  wanted  to  get  over  to  Reade,  fif 
teen  miles,  to  have  a  dentist  there  do  some  slight  mending  for 
her  teeth.  Mrs.  Heybrook  also  wanted  to  go,  to  "  trade  a 
little  "  at  the  shops.  To  be  sure,  she  could  send  for  her  cali 
coes  by  Mrs.  Clark,  who  would  be  going  over  Monday,  and 
so  save  her  own  time  ;  and  Rael  could  just  drive  Miss  Ammah 
in  the  buggy ;  but  Sarell  said  with  force,  "  You  know  Miss 
Clark  hain't  got  no  sort  of  judgment  -and  she  ain't  the  most 
reliable  woman  in  the  world,  any  way,  nor  in  the  town  either ! 
I  won't  trust  her  with  my  arrants  ! '' 

Besides,  the  "  Red  Quarries  "  were  on  the  way;  and  Miss 
France  wanted  to  see  the  Red  Quarries,  where  they  found  the 
pink  tourmaline  and  the  rose-quartz.  So  all  these  things  and 
the  pleasant  weather  settled  it.  Rael  was  to  drive  the  two 
horses  in  the  double-seated  wagon,  and  Miss  Ammah  and  his 
mother  and  Miss  France  were  to  go. 

They  started  early,  when  the  dew  was  still  bright  in  the 
shady  places,  and  the  sweet  pasture-perfumes  were  just  rising 
up  in  the  sunny  ones.  The  glory  of  the  blue  overhead  was 
only  flecked  by  softest  silvery  foam  of  clouds  that  floated  joy 
ously  upon  the  high-moving  mountain  airs.  Everything  was 
as  clean  and  beautiful  and  glad  as  life  was  with  the  two 
freshest  of  heart  and  years  among  them.  The  big,  plain 
mountain-wagon,  with  its  red  wheels,  its  hard  seat-back,  softened 
with  rugs  and  robes  flung  over,  rumbled  along  jollily  after  the 
sure-stepping,  comfortable  old  horses.  France  sat  in  front  with 
Rael.  The  long  summer  day,-of  which  this  beauty  was  the 


98  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

beginning,  was  before  them.  The  luncheon-baskets,  packed  with 
the  best  "victuals"  from  Mother  Heybrook's  pantry,  were  un 
der  the  box.  They  were  to  stop  at  the  Quarries,  a  mile  this 
side  the  edge  of  Reade,  get  their  stones,  and  eat  their  dinner ; 
for  the  dinners  at  the  Reade  taverns  were  what  Mrs.  Heybrook, 
with  her  housewifely  ability  that  was  opposite  inability,  called 
"  unaccountable." 

When  we  all  know  what  summer  days  do,  —  what  pleasure 
shared  is  to  young  creatures  making  up  their  vision  of  life 
from  the  fairest  that  life  presents ;  when  we  remember  the  town 
pleasures,  — the  hops,  the  assemblies,  the  concerts,  the  Germans, 
that  bring  young  folks  together,  and  what  the  beginning  of 
one  of  these  evenings  is  to  the  youths  and  maidens  who  meet 
with  gloves  just  drawn  on,  flowers  fresh  in  the  hand,  and  the 
band-music  sounding  its  first  notes  in  their  ears,  —  can't  we 
think  what,  in  the  same  nature  of  things,  this  all-day,  world 
wide  ecstasy  was,  as  it  began  with  France  Everidge  and  Rael 
Heybrook  1  They  could  n't  have  been  young  man  and  young 
girl,  and  not  have  felt  some  thrill  of  it,  different  from  what  it 
would  have  been  without  each  other.  Something  of  comparison 
with  those  hothouse  pleasures  of  the  winter  and  society-time  was 
suggesting  itself  to  France;  and  she  thought  eagerly,  "Oh,  what 
bigger  things  there  are  than  little  lighted  rooms  and  a  few  florist's 
bouquets  and  exactly  eight  pieces  of  music  with  set  strings  !  and 
how  much  bigger  peojile  seem,  let  loose  with  all  this  to  make  their 
work  or  pleasure  in ! "  She  turned  around  on  her  seat,  and  said 
to  Miss  Amman,  "  I  'm  afraid  I  can  never  crowd  a  real  good 
time  inside  brick  walls  again,  now  that  I  've  had  all  creation  for 
one  single  treat !  "  And  Israel,  holding  the  reins  loosely  over 
his  knee  as  his  big  horses  grappled  up  the  Centre  Hill,  smiled 
that  the  grand  divertisement  was  just  a  country  ride  that  he 
could  give  anybody,  any  time,  always,  —  when  the  great  hay- 
harvest  was  not  actually  amaking.  They  went  by  the  river 
road,  down  through  the  wild,  black  glen,  from  which  the  cedar- 
clad  heights  rose  straight  and  steep  at  either  side,  along  the 
ledge-winding,  whence  they  looked  over  into  the  shine  and  foam 
of  noisy  little  cataracts,  across  broad  meadow-stretches,  where 
the  blossoms  of  the  arrowhead  sheeted  as  with  snow  the  beau- 


THE   RED    QUARRIES.  99 

tiful  level ;  and  here  Rael  put  the  reins  into  France's  hands, 
sprang  down,  and  over  the  low,  broken  wall,  gathered  handfuls 
of  the  delicate  flowers  with  their  spear-pointed  leaves,  and  came 
back  and  heaped  them  all  into  the  girl's  lap.  That  was  n't  a 
thing  that  could  be  done  in  any  "German  figure"  or  in  any 
drawing-room. 

The  pleasure  brimmed  up  and  up.  The  high  noon  found 
them  in  the  cool,  deep  ledges  where  the  quarry  road  began. 
They  came  around  under  the  flank  of  a  mighty  hill,  crossed  into 
a  low  defile,  scrambled  up  a  cart-track  over  rattling  stones, 
brook-washed  by  the  spring  currents ;  and  in  a  cheerful  opening, 
where  oaks  and  maples  made  a  marginal  ring,  they  stopped 
the  horses,  climbed  down  from  the  wagon,  made  their  little 
camping-place,  and  forgot  that  they  were  bound  any  whither 
from  any  where,  or  ever  back  again,  and  that  this  lovely  still 
ness  was  not  the  very  emptiness  of  all  the  world  of  everything 
but  joy  and  beauty,  and  themselves  its  sole  delighters. 

Away  up  in  the  hills,  in  these  gray  and  green  solitudes, 
everything  is  everybody's,  —  everybody's  who  knows  where  it 
is  and  what  it  means  when  they  come  to  it.  Of  course,  you 
can't  quarry  in  a  man's  owned  and  titled  ledges,  or  cut  his 
woods  down  ;  but  "  all  creation  for  a  treat,"  from  the  huckleber 
ries  on  the  bushes  and  the  fair,  odorous  azaleas  in  the  wild,  dark 
swamps,  to  the  crystals  of  garnet  and  amethyst  that  you  may 
pick  up  among  the  clefts  of  granite,  and  the"  glory  of  all  the 
unforbidden  range  of  earth  and  sky,  belongs  to  these  farmer 
people,  whose  hearts  and  souls  sometimes  grow  great  and  sweet 
toward  such  fulness,  though  shut  out  and  cut  off  from  the  bor 
rowed  culture  of  the  towns.  Rael  Heybrook  was  a  prince 
to-day,  showing  his  inheritance  —  the  things  he  had  had  essen 
tial  ownership  in  from  boyhood  —  to  these  his  guests,  —  to 
France  Everidge,  her  face  radiant  with  the  joy  that  beat 
through  her  veins  like  new  blood,  her  step  springing  with 
eagerness  as  she  followed  him  on  and  on,  greedy  to  gather  in 
to-day  all  this  big  mountain  and  its  splendors,  for  sight  and 
memory  at  least,  to  carry  away  with  her,  and  keep  a  "joy 
forever." 

Miss  Amman  began  to  quiver  in  her  conscience  again,  sitting 


100  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

there  in  enforced  rest  with  Mother  Heybrook  among  the 
maples ;  but  this  day,  at  any  rate,  was  beyond  her  snatching 
back  again. 

In  the  low  brushwood  under  the  hill  they  found  the  lovely 
rosy  azalea,  late-blooming  in  a  cool,  rock-shaded  hiding-place, 
and  the  fair,  white,  spicy  blossoms  of  the  commoner  kind.  They 
filled  their  emptied  lunch-baskets  with  them,  packing  their  stems 
in  dripping  mosses.  Then  they  addressed  themselves  to  the 
search  for  jewels.  It  was  like  a  fairy  tale. 

Up  rose  the  high  cone  of  the  bristling,  scrub-wooded  hill, 
veined  mightily  with  its  one  broad  heaving  line  of  outcropped 
granite,  like  a  lava  stream.  Up  this  they  had  to  climb,  to  cross 
the  crest,  to  clamber  down  beyond  into  the  open  quarries,  where 
the  gray  seams  with  their  white  flashes,  and  the  wide-strewn 
heaps  of  quartz  and  feldspar  fragments,  with  glistening  films  and 
solid  plates  of  mica  catching  the  sun's  rain  of  light  and  flinging 
it  back  in  piercing,  scintillant  intensity,  lay  like  one  great  moun 
tain  geode  broken  apart  before  them. 

They  found  their  red  tourmaline,  their  bits  of  garnet,  sheets 
of  violet-colored  mica,  above  all  the  rosy  masses  of  mother-rock 
and  the  clear  white  obelisks  of  crystal,  that  grouped  themselves 
like  little  fallen  pillars,  a  miniature  primeval  ruin.  France 
came  back  with  her  gown  full,  the  overskirt  gathered  up  across 
her  arm,  with  a  weight  that  threatened  to  break  through  the 
stuff,  wild  with  delight,  and  calling  to  Miss  Ammah  that  Mr. 
Rael  had  as  many  as  he  could  carry  in  her  shawl  for  her, 
Miss  Ammah's  self.  "  They  '11  fill  a  whole  cabinet,"  she  said. 
"  Why,  you  don't  know  !  You  can't  conceive  !  We  've  been 
to  an  actual  Golconda  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Ammah  a  little  bit  tartly,  as  she  rose 
rather  stiffly  from  her  long  low  posture,  "  I  think  now  we  'd 
better  go  to  Reade." 

She  had  half  a  mind  to  say  she  wanted  to  ride  in  front  her 
self  now,  above  the  horses  ;  but  that  would  have  been  ridiculous. 
They  knew  so  altogether  better  about  her  usual  mind  in  regard 
to  horses,  and  that  her  only  peace  was  to  sit  behind,  forgetting 
the  eight  legs,  and  merely  watching  placidly  the  four  involun 
tary  wheels.  Just  as  they  were  going  into  Reade,  besides  !  No, 


THE   RED   QUARRIES.  101 

this  day,  in  all  its  circumstance,  was  beyond  her  snatching  back 
again.  Poor  Miss  Ammah,  —  who  had  given  things  over  confi 
dently  to  Providence  and  the  parties  concerned  !  She  did  not 
yet  know  what  this  day  was  to  do  that  could  not  in  a  hurry  be 
snatched  back  or  got  away  with  into  safer  days. 

It  was  the  first  time  Rael  and  France  had  been  so  thrown 
together.  If  the  minister  had  been  there,  as  he  had  been  in 
their  pyramid  readings,  their  star-gazing  in  the  warm,  bright 
evenings,  going  out  and  in  between  the  planisphere  under  the 
parlor  lamp  and  the  round  of  heaven  all  visible  from  the  ridge 
of  silent  roadway  out  before  the  door !  Both  together,  she  felt 
no  dread  of  them ;  one  at  a  time,  and  this  one,  it  began  first  to 
look  momentous. 

To  Rael  and  France  nothing  that  they  knew  had  altered. 
They  had  not  talked  very  much,  they  had  been  so  busy  and 
so  happy.  He  had  thought  once  and  again,  seeing  her  pleasure, 
her  bright  looks,  her  quick  movements,  "  How  simple  and  how 
glad  she  is !  "  and  France  had  set  down  a  fresh  item  in  the  slow 
estimate  she  fancied  she  was  making  of  him,  simply  as  that 
farmer-gentleman  she  must  account  for  to  allow.  "  He  is  as 
fond  of  beautiful  things  as  if  he  had  to  buy  them,  instead  of 
finding  them  in  the  rocks  and  woods.  I  wonder  if  that  is  n't 
something  gentle-born  ] " 


102  ODD,  OK  EVEN  V 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

HOW  MUCH  MORE  DOES   IT  TAKE  ? 

IT  was  in  the  evening,  the  sweet  dusk-edge,  as  they  drove  slowly 
back  from  Reade. 

They  had  taken  the  long  river  road  in  the  morning,  eighteen 
miles  by  the  way  of  the  north-side  quarries.  They  were  coming 
home  by  the  cross-road  now. 

They  had  got  to  the  crown  of  hills  above  "Jerusalem," 
and  were  descending,  with  careful  reining  in  and  bearing  back, 
the  steep,  long  plunges, — for  these  mountain  roads  are  like 
cataract  beds,  and  travellers  are  like  the  falling  water,  —  where 
the  only  break  and  safety  were  the  water-bars,  humping  up 
across  the  way  at  frequent  intervals. 

Midway  down,  —  a  crack,  a  lurch,  —  a  sudden  huddling  of 
harness,  wagon,  horses. 

They  did  not  know  till  afterward  what  happened,  or  how 
they  got  safe  out  of  it.  There  was  only  that  quick  conscious 
ness  of  the  instant  upon  which  people  act  half  blindly,  yet 
oftentimes  as  from  a  preternatural  clear-seeing. 

Something  had  given  way  ;  they  were  all  in  a  loose,  clattering 
heap  :  there  was  the  second's  pause  before  the  inevitable  nish, 
and  the  terrible  remainder  of  the  hill  was  before  them.  Rael, 
with  a  brave  shout  to  his  horses,  was  out  over  the  dashboard, 
lighting  on  the  heavy  pole  between  their  struggling  haunches, 
the  reins  still  gathered  in  his  hands.  The  iron-hooked  end  of 
the  pole  struck  fast  against  the  water-bar,  burying  itself  in  the 
hard  earth  ;  that  held  them  back  an  instant.  The  wise  beasts, 
feeling  their  master  and  his  manhood  down  there  with  them  in 
their  very  work  and  peril,  and  recognizing  the  beginning  of  the 
help,  held  their  own  nobly  for  an  instant  more.  In  the  self 
same  flashes  of  time  the  three  women  had  been  out  at  back  and 


HOW   MUCH   MORE   DOES   IT   TAKE?  103 

sides,  France  over  the  high  forward  step  with  one  quick  spring. 
Then  the  girl  had  seized  up  a  great  stone,  and  crowded  it  chock 
against  the  grinding,  slipping  wheel,  —  another,  two  more  then  ; 
the  elder  women  seeing  what  was  to  do  and  hurrying  to  help 
with  it.  Nobody  spoke  a  word  till  all  was  £ist. 

Rael  unhitched  his  horses  :  some  strap  or  staple  had  given 
way  and  parted  the  neckyoke  from  the  pole ;  it  was  only  his 
quick  spring  upon  the  tongue  that  had  checked  the  downward 
plunge,  and  hung  their  safety  on  the  bit  of  timber  and  his  hun 
dred  and  sixty  pounds  of  weight.  France,  sitting  there  on  the 
rough  roadside  bank,  watching  what  he  was  doing  now,  and  ask 
ing  nothing,  understood  it  all.  He  was  tying  the  yoke  with  a 
bit  of  rope,  winding  it  fast  about  the  pole,  that  fortunately  was 
not  broken.  He  stood  between  the  horses'  heads,  quietly  intent 
upon  his  work ;  Mrs.  Heybrook  and  Miss  Tredgold  were  dusting 
each  other's  gowns.  France  said  to  herself,  remembering  the  leap 
down  among  those  scrambling  hoofs,  before  the  threatening 
crush  of  the  wheels,  "  He  is  as  brave  as  a  lion !  How  much 
more  does  it  take,  I  wonder  1  " 

Wise  with  man's  beginning  wisdom,  and  growing  wiser  ;  gentle 
as  a  woman  with  care  and  tendance ;  beauty-loving  as  a  child  ; 
quick  and  strong,  and  full  of  courage,  not  counting  his  life,  or 
his  life's  plan,  dear  unto  him  against  the  need  of  others.  How 
much  more,  indeed  ?  How  much  more  did  she  know  anybody 
to  be? 

But  he  had  grown  up  out  of  the  ground  ;  had  come  up  like  a 
turnip,  with  the  soil  clinging  to  him. 

Did  she  say  that  to  herself]  Not  at  all ;  it  was  said  as  if  be 
hind  her.  She  had  now  to  reason,  not  with  herself,  who  had 
always  run  counter,  in  a  girlish  fashion,  to  the  prejudices  of  her 
class  and  narrow  circle,  —  or  rather  of  the  class  and  narrow 
circle  which  stands  censor  to  the  imagination  of  a  wider  class 
seeking  to  press  within  a  smaller  limit ;  she  had  to  reason  with 
what,  in  spite  of  herself,  stood  censor  over  her  now,  from  habit 
of  appeal,  of  control,  of  very  resistance.  And  all  in  behalf, 
quite  objectively,  of  this  instance,  this  fact  of  human  nature, 
and  a  special  condition,  which  was  to  be  fairly  measured  and 
then  maintained. 


104  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

Grown  ?  come  up  ?  Had  he  quite  done  that  1  was  he  half,  yet, 
of  what  he  would  be,  must  be,  before  he  could  be  measured  1 
was  he  not  —  the  disputed  word  came  back  to  her  —  merely 
middling,  as  yet  1  If  this  were  half  height,  what  was  the  full 
stature  1  was  it  anything  she  had  known  much  of,  except  in 
story-dreams  1  Was  it  any  gentleman's  measure  that  she  had 
come  close  enough  to,  in  her  small,  school-girl,  party-going  ex 
perience,  to  look  up  at  ?  A  great  many  gentlemen's  measures 
•were  simply  kept  at  their  tailors'.  It  was  the  measure  of  some 
thing  she  knew  of  in  men  who  spoke  and  acted  for  their  kind. 
Gentlemen,  not  of  mere  order  or  family,  but  nobles  of  a  race. 
Meanwhile  this  noble  had  mended  his  tackle  in  such  fashion  as 
he  could. 

Miss  Tredgold  was  demoralized,  and  could  not  be  assured 
that  the  mending  would  hold,  or  if  it  did,  that  the  old  wagon's 
time  had  not  come  and  it  would  not  go  to  pieces,  bit  by  bit, 
between  here  and  the  farm,  down  all  those  awful  barn-roof 
pitches.  Insanely,  though  quietly,  she  declared  an  intention 
of  walking.  Two  miles  and  a  half  of  barn-roof  pitches,  and  she 
the  very  one  of  the  party  who  could  not  do  two  miles  and  a 
half  of  fair  walking. 

Rael  offered  to  lead  the  horses,  and  so  lighten  the  weight, 
besides  keeping  control.  She  would  rather  not.  The  only 
•way,  then,  was  to  start  on  in  company  with  her,  and  take  her 
up  when  her  muscles  gave  out  and  her  nerves  gave  in.  France 
would  walk  with  her,  and  Mother  Heybrook  and  Rael  would 
ride. 

But  at  that  instant  it  was  found  out  that  France  could  not 
•walk.  She  had  sat  still  on  the  bank,  not  mentioning  what  she 
had  thought  would  go  off  of  itself,  —  a  little  pain  in  her  knee 
from  her  jump.  Apparently,  it  had  gone  off  by  resting ;  but 
when  she  rose  to  her  feet  she  dropped  back  again  with  a  slight 
cry.  There  was  a  twist ;  she  could  not  bear  her  weight.  She 
laughed,  her  brows  knit  at  the  same  time  with  the  aching. 

They  all  started  toward  her.  Rael  came  to  her  first.  "  You 
are  hurt,"  he  said  ;  "and  you  saved  us  from  the  whole  danger. 
Is  it  very  bad  1 " 

"1 1  how  can  you  tell  such  a  —  contortion  ?    Do  you  suppose 

8 


HOW   MUCH   MOKE   DOES   IT   TAKE?  105 

we*  shall  ever  forget  seeing  you  go  down  there  into  that  great 
heap  of  hunching,  scrambling  creatures  1 "  she  spoke  in  the  safe, 
dignified  plural,  though  nobody  had  seen  him  at  all  but  herself, 
until  it  was  pretty  well  over.  "  You  might  have  been  dragged 
away,  —  run  over,  —  crushed." 

"  Yes,  if  you  had  not  blocked  the  wheels,"  said  Rael  quietly. 
"  Is  it  very  bad  ? " 

"  What  is  it,  France  ?  "  asked  Miss  Amman.  "  Can't  you 
get  up  1  What  shall  we  do  1 " 

Rael  saw  what ;  and  he  did  it,  just  as  he  had  jumped  down 
between  the  horses.  He  put  forth  two  strong  arms,  gathered 
France  and  her  draperies  all  up,  folding  her  shawl  about  her, 
as  lightly  and  easily  as  a  nurse  gathers  up  a  baby ;  and  hold 
ing  her  so,  went  up  step  and  thill  and  footboard,  as  a  nurse 
might  climb  an  even  stair.  He  set  her  down  softly,  where  she 
had  sat  before  ;  then  with  two  baskets,  a  cushion  from  his  side 
of  the  wagon-seat,  and  a  rug  from  the  back,  he  made  a  level 
with  the  dashboard ;  took  her  two  little  feet,  not  asking  which 
was  the  lame  one,  and  rested  them  both  across  it;  rolled  a 
cloak  up  in  the  corner  for  her  to  lean  against ;  then  he  said, 
"  Now,  mother,  —  now,  Miss  Amman,  —  we  must  get  home." 

And  with  that,  up  drove  the  minister,  in  his  light  buggy, 
from  a  bit  of  cross-road  that  came  in  just  ahead. 

There  was  room  for  one  with  him  :  Miss  Amman  had  better 
go ;  she  would  not  be  afraid,  and  she  would  get  home  first,  and 
the  large  load  would  be  lightened.  She  need  not  worry  about 
Miss  France :  Rael  would  walk  down  all  the  pitches,  and  lead 
the  horses. 

There  was  no  taking  France  down  again  ;  there  was  no  use 
making  any  more  fuss.  Miss  Ammah  felt  the  hands  of  Provi 
dence  grasping  her  on  every  side,  and  gave  way,  mentally  wash 
ing  her  own.  Mentally,  underneath  all  her  scruples,  repeating 
to  herself,  "  It  they  are  man  and  woman  enough  to  find  each 
other  out,  all  Boston  could  n't  help  it  if  it  was  here.  And  per 
haps  I  'm  more  accountable  to  what  I  know  about  them  both 
as  man  and  woman  than  I  am  to  what  all  Boston  would  think 
about  them,  not  knowing  at  all.  If  I  could  n't  in  conscience  be 
toward,  I  could  n't  in  nature  be  from-ward  —  that 's  froward, 


106  ODD,    OB   EVEN  ? 

—  in  it ;  especially  when  I  'm  set  right  outside  it  all,  as  I  5m 
this  minute.  Besides  which,  here  's  the  other." 

The  other  was  breaking  up  the  thread  of  her  self-examination 
by  persistent  inquiries, — about  the  accident,  about  the  hurt 
Miss  Everidge  had  sustained,  about  anything  he  could  possibly 
do  for  them  all.  Doctor  Fargood  ]  He  would  drive  over  to 
the  railway  village  and  fetch  him,  with  pleasure.  Would  n't  it 
be  well  to  go  right  on,  when  he  should  have  left  her  at  the 
farm  ]  The  doctor  would  be  back  almost  as  soon  as  Miss  Ever 
idge  would  have  arrived  herself.  And  with  that  he  whipped 
up  his  little  Morgan  at  the  brow  of  a  descent,  so  that  Miss 
Tredgold  screamed  in  a  whisper,  as  was  always  her  discreet 
way  in  her  driving  frights,  and  besought  him  to  hold  back. 

They  would  wait  and  see.  It  might  be  nothing.  Arnica 
would  be  the  first  thing,  any  way.  There  could  be  nothing 
very  serious,  or  she  could  not  have  rushed  round  blocking  the 
wheels,  when  she  first  jumped  off. 

"Did  she  do  that  1     It  was  great  presence  of  mind." 

"  It  was  great  presence  of  stones,  anyway.  And  it  was  natural 
enough  to  put  them  to  their  obvious  use,"  Miss  Tredgold  an 
swered  serenely ;  for  the  Morgan  was  going  comfortably  on  a 
safer  level  now,  and  a  suspension  of  terror  always  made  her 
slightly  jocose. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  was  reconciled  to  waiting  at  the  farm  a 
little  while  to  see. 

But  it  was  Israel  Heybrook  who  lifted  her  down,  as  he  had 
lifted  her  up,  and  carried  her  in  his  arms  straight  up  the  stairs, 
and  laid  her  on  the  sofa  in  Miss  Amman's  room,  and  there 
delivered  her  over  to  that  lady.  He  scarcely  questioned,  or 
expressed  much  of  concern  :  by  his  quietness  he  showed  the 
respectful  distance  that  he  felt,  even  holding  her  that  way, 
through  necessity,  in  his  very  arms  ;  and  he  did  not  think  of 
crossing  the  threshold  with  her  into  her  own  apartment. 

But  he  went  down  stairs  and  led  his  team  around  to  the 
barns,  feeling  as  if  some  great,  new  thing  had  happened  to  him, 
and  he  did  not  dare  to  look  at  it  to  see  what  it  was. 

In  the  kitchen,  Sarell,  in  her  peculiar  way,  was  approaching 
a  fresh  subject  with  Mrs.  Heybrook.  "  Things  alwers  happens 


HOTV   MUCH   MORE   DOES   IT  TAKE?  107 

all  of  a  heap,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  don'  know  whether  I  'd  best 
tell  yer  or  not.  Here  's  France  goiu'  to  be  laid  up  lame,  an' 
waited  on  (Sarell  was  too  much  born  in  the  American  purple  to 
miss  any  of  her  own  dignity  by  '  Missing'  anybody  else  whom 
she  ever  heard  spoken  of  without  a  nominal  prefix) ;  and  here  's 
Tryphosy  Clark  ben  after  you,  as  she  alwers  doos  when  she 
comes  to  a  jog,  or  thinks  she  doos ;  and  I  s'pose  likely  she  '11 
expect  word  from  yer  somehow,  if  yer  can't  go.  I  hope  the' 
ain't  goin'  to  be  fever  round.  Miss  Tredgold  's  jest  got  through, 
an'  now  here's  'Lando  Clark.  Tryphosy  said  there  warn't 
nothin'  to  be  scared  of,  an'  that 's  how  I  know.  I  know  Try 
phosy.  I  presume  the  doctor  told  her  right  out 't  was  typ'us." 

"  Can't  you  ever  think  well  of  Tryphosy  again,  Sarell  ] 
Life 's  too  short  for  querrellin'  and  suspectin',"  said  Mrs.  Hey- 
brook,  reaching  down  hat  and  shawl  that  she  had  just  hung  up 
in  the  press.  "  If  Orlando 's  sick,  I  must  step  down.  I  s'pose 
you  can  help  up  stairs,  if  they  want  anything ;  I  '11  run  up  and 
find  out.  And  you  can  see  to  the  tea." 

"  I  know  life 's  too  short  fer  querrellin',"  Sarell  responded, 
her  fresh  face,  with  its  sunshine  of  blue-sparkling,  good-natured 
eyes,  its  beaminess  of  red-gold,  wavy  hair,  and  complexion 
suiting,  its  mouth,  untaught  as  yet  to  drop  its  corners,  in 
curious  contradiction  to  the  humor  of  her  speech.  "But  it's 
too  short,  too,  fer  makin'  over  some  folks.  An'  yer  could  n't 
make  up  with  Tryphosy  Clark  athout  ye  could  make  her  over. 
She  's  right  there,  same 's  she  ever  was,  an'  will  be  t'  the  end 
o'  the  chapter.  And  that  means  she  ain't  anywheres  ter  be 
depended  on.  She  '11  melt  over  last  year's  sugar  an'  sell  it  fer 
ne-ew,  an'  she'll  give  short  weight  of  butter  an'  cheese,  an' 
she  '11  borrer  big  and  return  small,  an'  she  '11  lie  the  charickter 
all  out  o'  the  house,  finally,  as  she 's  lied  away  Silas  Clark's  good 
name  aready,  with  her  contraptions.  He 's  a  clever-disposed 
kind  'ver  man,  nat'rilly,  ef  he  could  only  git  shet  o'  her  tricks  ; 
an'  he 's  ben  a  ri'down  good  husbin'  to  her ;  that  is,  as  good  's  a 
man  knows  how  to  be.  Yiss,  I  kin  see  ter  tea  an'  clear  away  ; 
but  I  can't  reconcile  it,  your  goin'  down  there.  It'll  run  all 
through  the  family,  —  everything  alwers  doos  run  through  that 
family,  —  an'  it'll  start  on  yourn ;  fer  you'll  be  down  yerself." 


108  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

"  Don't  borrow  trouble,  Sarell,"  Mrs.  Heybrook  said  placidly 
moving  toward  the  stairs. 

"  Why  not  1 "  Sarell  called  after  her,  in  a  brisk  and  cheerful 
manner.  "There'll  be  plenty  to  pay  back  with,  ef  we  allliv"n 
prosper  ! "  Then  she  turned  to  her  waiting  work  again ;  put  a 
handful  of  chips  into  the  stove,  set  the  tea-pot  and  the  griddle 
back,  and  gave  a  fresh  whip-up  to  the  bowl  of  flapjack 
batter. 

She  had  spoken  her  mind  :  that  always  cheered  her  up  in 
the  very  process,  so  that  the  last  end  of  a  tirade  or  a  lamenta 
tion  became  quite  genial  or  jolly.  Also,  she  never  projected 
her  grievances  into  surroundings  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
them;  she  never  slammed  innocent  doors  or  dealt  recklessly 
with  irrelevant  crockery ;  she  never  gloomed  at  the  next  person 
because  the  last  one  had  worried  her.  "  There  ain't  no  need  to 
cut  your  bread  with  a  knife  you've  jest  ben  peelin'  onions 
with."  That  was  her  idea,  and  she  stood  up  to  it. 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  109 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MOUNTAIN-FOGS  AND  CLEAR-RUNNING   WATERS. 

WELL,  and  the  history  of  France  1 

In  the  days  that  followed  the  laming  of  her  knee,  it  was  a 
history  of  the  interior  mostly.  Foreign  relations  were  in  statu 
quo.  For  ten  days  she  was  keeping  her  room ;  she  could  not 
walk  over  the  stairs,  and,  of  course,  she  would  not  now  be  car 
ried.  The  doctor  had  prescribed  a  three  weeks'  rest,  as  nearly 
entire  as  might  be ;  the  ten  days'  perfect  passivity  he  had  in 
sisted  on  :  after  the  three  weeks  he  promised  her  activity  again. 
She  read  ;  she  painted  some  flowers  and  ferns  ;  she  sewed  and 
crocheted  a  little ;  she  thought  a  great  deal.  Never  a  word 
she  said  about  her  coming  home  that  night,  or  Rael  Heybrook's 
service  in  it.  She  had  taken  it  at  the  time  in  utter  passivity 
and  almost  utter  silence.  Twice  she  had  said  the  decent 
"  Thank  you "  ;  the  second  time  it  was  "  Thank  you  very 
much  "  :  she  could  not  say  less.  But  it  was  spoken  with  perfect 
quietness ;  she  would  not  for  worlds  have  seemed  embarrassed 
about  it,  or  treated  it  as  a  thing  in  itself  for  particular  feeling 
or  notice.  She  would  by  no  means  have  resented  it ;  it  was 
the  only  thing  to  be  done ;  and  if  not  resentment,  what  other 
imaginable  emotion  could  it  have  provoked  in  her  1  Could  ? 
That  was  the  question  in  the  tone  she  chose  to  take,  even  with 
herself;  but  in  spite  of  her  tone,  there  was  another  more  search 
ing  :  what  had  it  ? 

The  war  was  brought  home,  now ;  it  was  no  longer  an  argu 
ment  for  an  opinion  against  the  standards  of  the  world  :  it  was 
a  struggle  within  herself.  It  exasperated  her,  because,  accord 
ing  to  her  theories,  there  had  no  business  to  be  a  struggle  at 
all.  If  this  man  were  a  gentleman,  why  not,  with  a  womanly 
shyness,  yet  with  a  womanly  truth,  own  to  herself  that  those 


110  ODD,    OR    EVEN  ? 

moments  of  dependence  upon  his  strength,  his  promptitude,  his 
delicate,  bold  chivalry  of  help,  had  been  moments  to  her  of  a 
secret,  beautiful  joy, — joy,  that  fora  woman  there  was  in  the 
world  this  manly  power  and  kindness  ;  joy,  that  to  this  woman, 
herself,  this  manly  man  should  render  it?  She  was  angry, 
ashamed;  she  was  furious,  disgusted  with  herself:  but  she 
could  not  deny  it.  She  only  would  not  look  at  it.  She  beat 
her  own  thought  down,  smiting  it  in  the  face. 

And  all  this,  while  she  placidly  waited  and  passed  her  time  in 
little  feminine  resources,  seeming  to  miss  nothing,  to  be  impa 
tient  for  nothing,  to  remember  nothing.  Miss  Arnmah  laughed 
at  herself  in  these  days,  for  her  anxieties  of  the  weeks  ago. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  would  wait  on  the  young  lady;  she  would 
leave  her  ironing,  her  baking,  her  butter-working,  to  bring  her 
letters  from  the  morning  mail,  a  book  that  Mr.  Kingsworth  had 
left,  a  plateful  of  fresh,  crisp  caraway- cakes,  a  glass  of  cold  yel 
low  buttermilk  from  the  iced  churn.  Miss  Ammah  begged  her 
not ;  she  insisted  on  carrying  up  the  trays  herself  for  regular 
meals  ;  but  there  was  always  just  this  thing  that  the  good  woman 
"  thought  she  might  as  well  step  right  up  with."  She  was  also 
stepping  down  to  the  darks'. 

There  was  fever  there  :  Orlando  was  tediously,  though  not 
dangerously  ill ;  then  Emily  was  down  with  it,  and  badly. 
Tryphosy  Clark  was  no  nurse;  she  was  only  a  rnb-and-go  house 
keeper  ;  she  never  had  things  handy,  or  thought  of  them  if 
they  were  at  hand.  Mother  Heybrook  was  everything  and  had 
everything ;  there  is  always  one  such  woman  in  a  country  neigh 
borhood,  upon  whom  the  neighborhood  hangs. 

"  Mother  "  began  to  look  pale.  The  hot  days,  —  on  her  feet 
from  four  in  the  morning  ;  the  short,  half-resting  nights,  at 
last  some  nights  of  watching,  when  Emily  Clark  died  ;  then 
the  funeral,  for  which  she  had  to  put  her  shoulder  to  the 
wheel,  to  straighten  the  house,  after  she  had  straightened  the 
corpse  in  it,  —  these,  one  after  and  upon  the  other,  wore  upon 
her.  "  Father "  saw  it ;  but  all  he  could  do  was  to  keep  the 
mare  tackled  up,  so  as  to  "  slip  her  down  to  darks'  as  well  as 
not,"  and  slip  down  after  her  when  she  was  ready  to  come 
home;  to  look,  mildly  anxious,  in  her  white  face,  and  say, 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,    ETC.  Ill 

"Don't  go  too  fur,  mother;  take  care  of  yourself";  or,  "Too 
bad,  mother;  all  beat  out,  I  know."  "But  it  was  no  use  to 
contradict ;  marm  was  a  pretty  resolute  kind  of  a  woman." 

Israel  noticed  it ;  and  he  got  the  milk  strained  and  set  away, 
while  Sarell  washed  tea-things  and  scalded  pails,  so  that  the 
willing  girl's  hands  were  in  the  bread-trough  before  "  mother  " 
came  back  from  her  neighborly  kindness,  the  nights  she  did 
come  back  ;  and  there  was  nothing  further  left  for  even  her 
scrupulousness  to  "see  to."  Rael  even  got  hold  of  the  hot 
irons  when  Mrs.  Heybrook  had  to  leave  them  for  the  dinner- 
getting,  and  polished  sheets  and  pillow-cases  and  table-cloths 
with  his  big  strength  and  careful  handling. 

The  Clarks  lived  down  in  the  hollow ;  the  meadow  mists 
hung  there,  and  the  dank,  odorous  vegetation  of  the  brookside 
and  the  swampy  ground  brewed  subtle  malaria  "  some  years." 
Up  on  the  hillside,  it  was  clear  and  dry  and  wholesome-balmy. 
The  natures  of  the  people  were  like  their  dwelling-places. 
Mother  Heybrook  kept  her  nature  with  her  everywhere ;  and 
she  came  up  from  the  hollow  and  the  sickness,  through  the 
clear  pasture  breezes,  to  her  high,  sweet-aired  home ;  and  she 
held  out  well.  But  there  came  a  day,  —  however,  a  good 
many  other  days  came  between,  and  I  have  to  tell  of  them. 

The  books  came  up  from  Loring's ;  some  lovely  worsted-work, 
begun  and  colors  sorted,  from  Stearns's ;  fruit  and  more  solid 
delicacies  in  baskets  and  ice-hampers  :  for  Mr.  Everidge  spent 
his  week-days  in  town,  and  the  whole  family  were  devising  com 
forts  and  amusements  for  France,  now  that  she  was  laid  up  and 
away  from  them  all.  I  told  you  they  were  nice  people,  although 
they  were  middling  in  some  things ;  and  France  was  a  good 
deal  to  them,  though  she  was  the  middle  girl  of  five.  Perhaps 
they  palled  with  a  little  unusual  vigor  at  family  ties,  just  now, 
from  a  dim  fear  of  other  pulling  —  of  other,  scarce-possible,  but 
dreadful-to-be-contemplated  hard  knots. 

France  rejoiced  in  the  dainties,  by  means  of  which  she  could 
do  a  little  part  in  Mother  Heybrook's  good  work ;  could  also 
beguile  Mother  Heybrook  herself  into  a  little  daintier  living 
than  ordinary. 
i     She  made  up  charming  lesser  baskets  and  dishes,  garnished 


112  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

j 

with  ferns  and  vine-leaves,  and  had  them  ready  at  the  door 
when  Mrs.  Heybrook,  or  a  messenger  from  her,  was  setting  off; 
and  she  had  some  fresh  device  and  deliciousness  in  the  middle 
of  the  homely  Heybrook  family  table,  out  in  the  shady  "  long 
kitchen,"  when  the  tired  good  lady  came  home. 

One  thing  was  noticeable,  that  she  chose  her  moments ;  and 
that  it  was  to  Lyman  or  his  mother,  if  possible,  that  she  in 
trusted  her  sendings ;  she  was  hardly  ever,  by  any  chance,  in 
the  Heybrook  family  limits  when  Israel  was  there. 

Within  the  fortnight  she  had  recovered  far  enough  to  get  up 
and  down  the  stairs  by  aid  of  the  balusters,  and  quite  com 
fortably  about  the  house;  but  she  had  not  ventured  beyond  the 
threshold  further  than  into  the  front  porch  or  upon  the  sunset 
piazza,  at  hours  when  Miss  Ammah  and  she  could  have  their 
places  to  themselves,  —  so  far,  that  is,  as  the  farm  people  were 
much  concerned ;  the  minister  did  drop  in  now  and  then,  on  his 
way  to  and  from  the  village,  and  usually  found  them  outside. 

Rael  Heybrook  sufficiently  seconded  her  desire  —  if  desire 
it  were  —  to  keep  aloof ;  he  busied  himself  more  energetically 
than  ever  with  his  farm  work  and  plans,  which  now  took  him 
to  the  distant  borders  of  the  property.  He  was  surveying  some 
irregular  boundaries,  and  was  cutting  down  a  piece  of  woodland, 
the  timber  of  which  he  was  to  haul  seven  miles  to  the  railroad 
station  at  Creddle's  Mills,  when  the  sledding  came.  For  that 
he  calculated  to  realize  a  good  winter's  profit. 

These  were  some  of  the  days  between  that  I  spoke  of;  they 
were  between  parts  in  several  connections  of  my  story,  —  the 
more,  not  the  less,  reason  to  follow  their  quiet  lines ;  for  noth 
ing  ever  stays  exactly  where  it  was,  in  days  that  come  between. 

It  was  in  this  time,  as  France  regained  the  slight  beginnings 
of  her  liberty,  which  were  yet  such  mere  enlargements  of  im 
prisonment,  and  as  she  seemed  rather  contentedly  to  accept  and 
adhere  to  their  limits,  that  Bernard  Kingsworth  came  into 
nearer  opportunities  of  knowing  her ;  of  contact  with  her 
thought  and  character  in  such  ways  as  make  days  like  weeks, 
and  weeks  like  years,  either  for  the  friendships  and  drawings 
together,  or  the  antagonisms  and  ploughing  of  great  gulfs,  in 
our  human,  which  are  our  eternal,  relations. 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  113 

The  young  minister  had  always  been  in  the  habit  of  calling 
a  good  deal,  in  a  quite  friendly  and  casual  way,  —  the  chances 
playing  in  with,  if  not  originating  often  in,  the  friendliness,  as 
they  never  would  have  done  in  an  unsuited  or  indifferent  ac 
quaintance,  —  on  Miss  Arnmah,  in  her  abidings  at  the  farm. 
His  way  to  and  from  the  village,  when  he  did  not  take  to  the 
river-path  and  the  woods,  lay  over  the  hill ;  and  he  was  often  the 
bearer  of  the  "  forest  mail,"  that  came  in  by  night,  after  the  day 
mail  had  been  received  and  brought  to  them  at  the  regular 
twilight  hour. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  never  deliberately  —  as  Mr.  Everidge  might 
have  said  in  regard  to  his  own  sort  of  business  subjects  — 
"  talked  shop " ;  that  is,  he  never  talked  the  technicalities  of 
his  profession,  or  treated  of  religion  as  a  commodity ;  he  never 
came,  of  purpose  prepense,  in  his  character  of  minister;  I  should 
say,  upon  an  errand  as  preacher.  He  left  his  gown  in  the  pulpit, 
as  ^iss  Ammah  had  remarked  of  him  when  she  had  first  met 
him ;  though,  literally  or  metaphorically,  he  wore  no  pulpit 
gown  at  all,  anywhere ;  certainly  not  among  these  barehanded, 
common-vestured  farmer  people  who  were  his  hearers. 

Yet  what  was  in  the  man  came  forth  from  his  lips,  if  he 
talked  at  all,  inevitably ;  as  the  merchant,  studying  trade  and 
the  world,  though  he  may  not  utter  invoices  or  the  monetary 
returns  of  the  day,  will  yet  by  his  view  and  grasp  of  things, 
whatever  they  may  be,  show  the  point  and  hold  he  has  in  com 
mand  of  what  the  world  concerns  with,  and  be  still  the  man 
of  wide  relations  and  economies  in  all  that  he  handles  and  dis 
cusses.  In  his  very  avoidances,  as  much ;  as  wife  and  daugh 
ters,  busy  with  their  small  social  or  personal  detail,  quite  often 
experience.  The  eye  and  the  ear  of  a  man,  and,  of  necessity, 
the  natural  speech,  which  feeds  itself  through  eye  and  ear, 
are  open  to  and  opened  by  the  range  in  which  his  working 
power  puts  forth ;  and  he  directly  and  consciously,  or  in 
sensibly  and  by  side-drift,  first  comes  to  his  choice  of  tools 
and  craft,  and  then  fashions  all  he  does,  his  very  thoughts 
and  internal  manhood,  with  the  habit  of  his  calling  and  to 
the  quality  and  uttermost  intention  of  that  which  he  has  taken 
up  to  do. 

8 


114  ODD,   OK  EVEN? 

The  carpenter  at  Nazareth  —  the  Son  of  the  Builder,  like  David 

—  was  in  truth  the  very  Builder  of  the  world. 

So,  if  I  try  to  bring  you  into  these  pleasant,  unhampered, 
summer-day  companionships,  where  were  met  together  a  young 
nature,  new  to  life,  and  asking  questions  of  it  and  of  itself, — 
a  conversant  womanhood  that  had  shared  and  observed  the 
world  with  keenness  for  seeing  and  strength  for  experience, 

—  and  a  man's  power  and  training,  directed,  of  the  highest  joy 
and  purpose,  toward  true  interpretations  of  that  which  is  writ 
ten,  not  between  any  two  covers  only,  but  between  the  covers 
that  are  put  as  the  upper  and  the  lower  waters  of  the  firmament, 
and  hold  the  world  of  the  creation  and  its  working, —  that  is, 
all  living  meanings  and  all  passing  things, —  you  need  not  find 
the  fault  with  me  or  with  the  man,  if  the  word  of  the  meaning 
sometimes  speaks  through  the  ordinary  talk.     They  who  do  not 
enjoy  the  company  and  the  occasion   may  quite  easily  pass  on  ; 
but  they  must  miss,   so,  something  of  what  most  essentially 
belongs  to  the  story  they  are  superficially  impatient  for. 

One  afternoon  —  the  light  flickering  soft  through  the  maples, 
and  the  still  boughs  framing  little  pictures  of  orchard  and 
sloping  grain-field,  and  mountain-side  black  with  shadow,  and 
blue  horizon-tips  misty  and  faint  with  the  full,  upper  sun-pour 

—  France  leaned,   a  very  picture  herself  of  a  delicious  ease, 
unafraid  of  break  or  obtrusion,  in  Miss  Ammah's  long  sea-chair, 
that  she  brought  here  always  for  her  "  mountain  deck  "  ;  beside 
her,  on  a  little  white  pine  table,  her  bright  wools,  the  work  she 
•was  busy  on,  her  last  books,  her  patience-box,  and  a  plate  of 
superb,  amber-ripe,  early  plums ;  Miss  Ammah  herself  close  by 
in  the  comfortable  rocking-chair  "  with  a  slump  to  it "  from  the 
east  sitting-room,  and  her  work,  some  quite  plain,  old-fashioned 
"  white-seam,"  in  her  always  busy  but  never  hurrying  hands. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  came  out,  bright  from  her  fifteen-minute  nap, 
her  hair  freshly  smoothed  and  turned  up  in  its  thick  gray  twist, 

—  she  had  no  time  for  caps  and  she  was  thankful  they  were  out 
of  fashion, — and  her  clean  lilac  cambric  "  polonay  "  tucked  up 
•with  just  one  pinch  over  her  black  alpaca  skirt.     The  "mixed 
wool-"  knitting  work  in  her  hand  showed  that  she  had  come  to 
"  visit  a  little." 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,    ETC.  115 

Miss  Ammah  knew  better  than  to  offer  her  the  rocking-chair. 
To  do  that  would  be  to  scare  her  altogether  from  perching  in  any 
way.  Left  to  herself,  she  came  around  to  the  red  rocker,  on  the 
other  side  from  France's  table.  Then  Miss  Ammah  said,  rather 
imprudently  even  yet,  "  That 's  right,  Mother  Heybrook;  sit 
down." 

"  Sit  standin',"  said  Mother  Heybrook.  "  That 's  all  I  ever  do, 
you  know."  But  she  put  out  her  hand  and  took  a  thick,  paper- 
bound  book  from  the  pine  table.  It  was  the  "  Marquis  of  Los- 
sie."  "  My  !  what  a  sight  o'  readin' !"  she  exclaimed,  turning  the 
double-columned  leaves.  "  It 's  a  story,  I  s'pose.  It 's  a  won 
der  to  me  how  so  much  that  jest  a  story  could  ever  be  allowed 
to  happen,  in  this  drivin'  world  ! "  Mother  Heybrook  used 
"allowed"  in  the  sense  of  ''supposed,"  or  "held  probable." 
"  An'  let  alone  happenin',  how  any  one  man  could  ever  stop  his 
own  work  to  write  it  all  down.  My  ! " 

"You  see  that  is  precisely  his  own  work,  Mrs.  Heybrook," 
said  France,  smiling.  "And  that  is  only  the  second  part  of  one 
story,"  she  added,  for  the  fun  of  the  effect. 

But  Mother  Heybrook  could  take  in  the  two  as  well  as  the 
one,  while  her  mind  was  on  the  stretch.  "  Well,  there  's  differ- 
'nces  of  gifts  and  administrations,  but  the  same  sperrit,"  she 
allowed,  with  a  generous  toleration  of  George  Macdonald.  "  It 
takes  all  sorts  o'  folks  and  all  sorts  o'  workers  to  make  up  the 
world  to  the  Lord's  mind.  I  s'pose  't  is  to  his  mind,  but  I  don't 
have  time  to  see  through  but  a  small  piece  of  it.  There  must, 
too,  be  a  sort  o'  people  set  apart  a  purpose  to  do  the  readiu', 
seems  to  me." 

At  this  moment,  a  youth  with  two  baskets,  one  in  either 
hand,  came  across  the  grass  slope  toward  the  house  from  the 
roadway,  and,  seeing  Mrs.  Heybrook  on  the  piazza,  turned  his 
steps  to  the  end  entrance  of  that,  instead  of  keeping  on  around 
the  house  to  the  kitchen  door. 

At  sight  of  him  France  took  up  her  patience  cards.  She  had 
seen  him  before,  when  she  had  been  with  Sarell  and  the  house 
mother  in  the  domestic  precincts  of  the  dwelling ;  and  she  had 
made  enough  acquaintance  with  him  to  find  that  just  a  dash  of 
coolness  and  acidity  was  a  good  accompaniment  to  conversation 
with  him,  as  one  takes  lemon  juice  with  raw  oysters. 


116  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

He  wore,  and  kept  on,  a  big,  flapping  straw  hat,  which  was 
the  regulation  chapeau  of  the  hay-makers  and  field-workers 
hereabouts, —  a  wonderful  construction,  with  high,  round  crown, 
independent  of  any  fashion  of  all  time,  and  a  slope  of  brim  that 
dipped  and  ended  simply  with  reference  to  the  horizon  line  of  the 
earth,  and  not  to  the  style  or  effect  of  the  human  countenance. 
From  under  this  particular  specimen  of  the  picturesque  "big 
pyramid  " —  as  France  had  christened  the  head-gear,  because  of 
its  essential  relations  and  earth  proportions — looked  forth  a  face 
impertinently  handsome,  imperturbably  self-assured,  defiantly 
"  as-good-as-you-are."  And  this  is  just  the  sort  of  face  that  can 
hardly  ever  get  the  worse  out  of  it  again, —  though  the  worse 
of  it  be  not  so  very  bad, —  or  the  better  of  it, —  that  might  be 
so  very  much  better, —  in.  It  belies  itself,  long  after  there  are 
better  things  to  be  expressed  in  it.  But  the  objectionableness 
of  Flip  Merriweather's  face  was  that  as  yet  it  told  an  "  ower 
true  tale,"  and  no  contradiction.  "He  was  real  bright," 
Mother  Heybrook  said  of  him,  "  but  as  consated  as  a  young 
rooster  that  had  just  got  the  swing  of  his  tail-feathers."  He 
had  russet-brown  hair, —  more  red  in  it  than  there  was  in  Rael 
Heybrook' s, —  eyebrows  and  a  soft  moustache-line  of  a  deeper 
color,  and  under  the  shade  of  the  former,  which  were  low  and 
level,  a  pair  of  changeable  blue  eyes  that  twinkled  like  water  in 
the  sun,  or  darkened,  when  a  cloud  came  over,  till  they  grew 
shadow-black.  He  was  the  young  brother-in-law  of  Doctor 
Fargood,  who  had  married  Grace  Merriweather,  a  farm-bred 
girl,  daughter  of  plain  old  Moses  Merriweather,  of  Wakeslow, 
in  the  back  hills.  Flip  had  come  here  a  few  years  ago,  on  his 
father's  death,  with  a  very  little  money,  his  share  from  the  sale 
of  the  farm,  his  fresh  verdancy,  his  quick  adaptabilities,  and 
his  prospects,  which  were  those  of  every  American-born  citizen, 
and  ranged  from  the  plough-tail  to  the  presidency.  He  had 
since  then  alternated  between  winter  schools  and  summer  farm 
work  for  the  doctor. 

He  had  been  one  year  at  the  academy  at  Askover,  and  that 
having  been  the  close  of  his  opportunities,  as  far  as  he  could 
reckon  upon  them,  in  that  line,  he  reckoned  himself,  in  a  cer 
tain  way,  as  finished ;  capable,  at  any  rate,  of  going  on  in 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  117 

any  specific  direction,  and  of  his  own  impetus,  if  he  took  a 
mind. 

He  liked  books,  if  he  might  pick  and  choose,  and  he  read  the 
newspapers,  and  remembered,  to  retail  glibly,  what  men  further 
out  in  the  world  were  saying  of  things.  He  had  no  idea  that  there 
was  very  much  going  on  anywhere  that  had  not  come  round  to 
him.  Moreover,  he  did  not  thank  it  so  very  much  for  corniug 
round.  He  felt  as  if  it  were  he  that  had  picked  it  up,  merely,  as 
the  young  rooster  does  the  corn,  not  noting  how  or  why  it  had 
come  to  be  scattered  for  him.  Really,  he  was  rather  in  danger  of 
getting  finished,  right  where  he  was,  which  would  have  been  as 
bad  a  thing,  short  of  moral  evil,  as  could  have  happened  to  him. 

He  had  interested  France  when  she  had  first  seen  him,  and 
he  would  have  done  so  still  could  he  have  kept  his  place 
sufficiently  to  have  been  safely  observed  in  it ;  but  in  one  or 
two  little  civil  talks  she  had  had  enough,  she  thought,  and  had 
not  cared  to  invite  speech  subsequently.  The  spirit  of  her 
order,  which  she  abjured  wherever  she  could  honestly  please 
herself  in  despising  it,  came  up  in  her  again  against  this  sort  of 
thing,  for  which  it  had  its  use,  and  she  snubbed  Flip  deliciously. 

Flip  —  or  Philip,  as  you  see  he  would  be  properly  called  if 
he  ever  grew  enough  to  outgrow  the  fit  of  the  other  —  under 
stood  her  perfectly  ;  hated  her  a  little,  —  while  capable  of  being 
charmed  with  her, —  with  a  saucy,  not  malignant,  hatred  ;  wore 
his  most  indifferent  airs  in  her  presence  ;  never  failed  of  an 
opportunity  for  being  there,  or  of  there  demonstrating  himself; 
continually,  as  it  were,  firing  off  some  little  Fourth  of  July 
crackers  by  way  of  declaration  of  independence. 

She  was  the  first  person  he  had  ever  met  —  he  fancied  that 
coming  within  the  same  ten  square  feet  with  her,  in  Mother 
Heybrook's  kitchen  stoop  or  front  piazza,  was  meeting  her — in 
whom  he  had  encountered  that  subtile  element  of  higher  de 
gree,  which  sets  the  lower  to  measuring  itself  by  the  very 
tiptoe  stretch  with  which  it  holds  an  assumed  level.  There 
has  been  the  minister,  indeed  ;  there  was  Rael  Heybrook  ;  there 
was  the  lady,  Miss  Amman  Tredgold.  But  Rael  never  assumed, 
never  held  himself,  so  to  speak,  at  his  real  altitude.  Flip  felt, 
in  regard  to  him,  that  he  did  n't  show  for  his  chances ;  and 


118  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

there  were  gravity  of  office,  and  the  years  of  half  a  lifetime, 
between  him  and  the  other  two,  to  set  them  separate.  Besides 
which,  it  is  quite  possible  to  walk  along  one's  daily  path  una 
bashed  by  the  overshadowing  of  the  cedar-tree,  or  the  growth 
of  the  lithe  ash  sapling,  easily  bending  and  making  no  pretence 
of  girth,  or  the  fixed  stature  of  the  little,  gnarled,  old-lady  apple- 
tree,  to  be  suddenly  surprised  by  a  rose-tree,  whose  gentle 
sprays  are  fresh  and  young  at  a  foot  grade,  but  whose  topmost 
dancing  leaves  fling  their  dewdrops  over  one's  head  or  in  one's 
face,  and  whose  proud-sweet  blossoms  may  not  be  approached 
for  the  thorns  that  are  set  invisibly  around  them. 

Only  a  girl,  with  her  white  ruffles  and  delicate  ways,  her 
crochet  work  and  her  story-books,  her  low-trained  speech, 
and  the  sweep  of  soft  garments,  whose  hems  seemed  to  signify 
a  circle  about  her  that  held  her  in  some  withdrawing  element 
separate  from  the  common  air ;  and  yet  it  was  common  air 
and  common  ground  anywhere  that  she  might  choose  to  be,  ex 
cept  for  the  very  time  that  she  was  there.  In  that  place  and  that 
moment,  though  it  might  be  the  chicken-yard,  and  the  moment 
when  his  way  lay  through  it  with  some  man's  errand  or  busi 
ness,  and  she  had  neither  errand  nor  business  at  all,  he  felt 
himself,  in  spite  of  his  fixed  mind  about  himself,  put  aloof :  a 
creature  stood  there  with  miles  of  impassable  atmosphere  be 
tween  her  and  him,  somehow.  It  was  this  how  that  he  set  his 
indifference  and  his  defiance  against.  He  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  jostle  a  rainbow.  But  he  could  not  keep  himself  con 
tent  out  of  the  spray  of  it. 

He  had  come  now  with  some  supplies  to  Mrs.  Heybrook,  as 
he  did  often.  The  baskets  held  fish  and  fruit ;  a  dozen  splendid 
silvery,  speckled  trout  in  one,  bedded  in  cool  handfuls  of  fresh 
grass ;  in  the  other,  great  blue  mountain  berries,  rich  with 
bloom,  and  heaped  with  that  effect  of  abundance  which  shows 
with  the  heaping  of  round  forms  as  with  nothing  else,  so  indi 
vidual  they  are,  so  revealing  of  each  other,  touching  ever  but 
at  one  single  point,  but  so  unnumberable. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  got  up  as  he  came  into  the  piazza. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  she  said,  "  I  never  get  set  down  but  some- 
thiu'  comes  along  to  rise  me  up  again.  Too,  I  'in  glad  it 's  you, 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  119 

Flip,   with  your  trouts  and  your  berries.      Those  come  from 
Thumble." 

"  Yes,  marm,  from  the  tip-top.  They  don't  grow  anywheres 
else." 

He  was  sure  of  himself  there,  at  any  rate.  The  tip-top  of 
Thumble,  mastered  for  a  peck  of  berries,  was  no  small  thing. 

"  What  does  Thumble  mean  ? "  France  asked  in  a  gently  re 
stricted  voice,  looking  up  at  Mrs.  Heybrook  as  she  passed  her 
with  the  baskets. 

"  Why,  Thumble  means  that  long,  scraggy  mountain  you  see 
to  the  right,  over  the  shoulder  of  the  oak  ridges.  Did  n't  you 
know  I " 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  heard  them  call  it  so,  but  I  mean  why? 
Why  Thumble  1 " 

"  Well,  I  don'  know  as  I  can  tell  you  positive.  It  may  have 
got  its  name  from  the  tumble  of  it ;  it  drops  clear  down  a  thou 
sand  feet  into  the  river  the  other  side ;  an'  again  at  the  Bend, 
this  way,  it 's  a  straight  pitch  to  Mill  Hollow ;  the  only  way 
over  it  is  a  slant  betwixt  the  two.  Or  some  folks  say  it 's  prop 
erly  '  Tim  Bell,'  from  a  man  named  Tim  Bell  that  got  killed  by 
a  bear  there.  But  if  he  did,  't  was  a  hundred  years  ago,  an'  I 
don't  s'pose  anybody  knows.  I  '11  take  two  of  these  trouts 
down  to  'Lando  to-night.  They  '11  be  real  relishin', " 

"  Now  Mrs.  Heybrook  ! "  expostulated  Miss  Ammah,  "  you 
said  you  would  n't  go  down  there  to-night.  Why  don't  you 
send  the  fish  ] " 

"  La  sakes,  't  ain't  nothin'  jest  to  slip  down  witti  'em.  Try- 
phosy,  she 's  busy  with  Ernmerly,  an'  likely 's  not  she  'd  set  'em 
away  till  mornin'.  I  '11  jest  see  he  has  'em." 

"That  means,  dear  Mrs.  Heybrook,"  said  France,  in  her 
peculiarly  sweet  tone  when  she  felt  special  kindness,  "  that  you 
will  cook  them  and  carry  them  to  him,  and  wait  till  he  has 
eaten  them,  and  then  wash  the  plates !  Why  don't  you  ever 
remember  that  you  are  tiring  yourself  out  ] " 

"  0,  put  tire  to  tire  an'  at  it  again  !  that 's  the  only  way  in 
this  world,  Miss  France."  And  the  cheerful  old  Samaritan  dis 
appeared  with  the  baskets. 

The  Yankee  fashion  of  utterance  is  much  like  the  Scotch  : 


120  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

they  to  whom  it  is  native,  however  properly  they  can  upon 
occasion  give  every  vowel  its  due,  and  economize  their  nega 
tives,  and  deny  themselves  their  clipping  apostrophes,  invariably 
abandon  themselves  to  the  vernacular  when  they  are  most 
hearty  or  most  graphic  in  their  talk.  France  Everidge's  musical 
speech,  just  as  earnest  and  as  easy  in  its  flow,  yet  adulterating 
no  sound  nor  abbreviating  any  syllable  except  the  everyday 
"do  not,"  contrasted  itself  with  Mother  Heybrook's  enunciation, 
and  limited  Mr.  Flip's  attention.  He  pared  the  rind  of  the 
gi*acious  fruit,  and  took  the  paring  instead  of  the  sweet  heart 
of  it.  More  than  that,  he  thought,  or  put  on  the  air  of  think 
ing,  that  the  rind  was  meant  to  be  flung  in  his  face.  Around  over 
Mrs.  Heybrook's  shoulder !  That  was  the  absurdity  and  the 
vanity  of  the  boy. 

"  Up  in  this  part  of  the  world,  Miss  France,"  he  said,  care 
fully  pronouncing,  "  where  we  have  not  quite  the  leisure  to  devote 
to  the  minutiae  of  our  ways,  we  —  ain't  ha'af  se'  easy  tuckered 
aout." 

France  spread  out  her  cards,  a  column  of  aces  in  the  middle, 
four  cards  each  side,  for  the  "  Egyptian."  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Flip,"  she  said,  catching  herself  up  as  one  preoccupied,  who 
perceives  she  has  been  spoken  to  and  seizes  on  the  escaping  echo 
of  the  last  few  words.  "  Took  a  doubt  1  Of  what,  please  1 " 

"  Not  in  the  least  degree  of  your  perspicacity,  not  the  least 
in  the  universe,"  returned  the  youth,  delighted  with  the 
skirmish,  and  getting  up  a  notch  higher  yet  on  his  conversational 
stilts,  "only  of  your  comprehension  of  how  country  people  can 
hold  out.  I  suppose,  now,  you  could  n't  climb  Thumble,  and 
you  would  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  anybody  could  if  they 
did  n't  bring  the  berries  down." 

France  left  him  to  his  supposition,  holding  her  fingers 
thoughtfully  on  her  "end  cards,"  while  she,  really,  not  pre 
tentiously,  threaded  in  her  mind  the  possible  moves  to  clear  a 
line. 

Miss  Tredgold  came  to  the  rescue  of  civility.  Flip,  in  his 
turn,  had  taken  up  "The  Marquis."  In  the  midst  of  her  cal 
culation  France  sent  an  anxious  glance  from  under  her  eyelids  ; 
she  did  not  like  to  have  Macdonald  fingered  profanely. 


MOUNT AIN-FOGS,    ETC.  1:21 

"  Have  you  read  '  Malcolm '  ? "  asked  Miss  Tredgold. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  with  a  slighter  emphasis  on  the  address  than  he 
had  given  Mother  Heybrook,  "  't  is  n't  in  my  style.  I  have  n't  got 
the  gift  of  the  tongues.  It's  too  much  trouble  to  make  'em  out." 

"  Which  tongues  1 "  asked  France,  unable  to  resist.  "  There 
were  tongues  once,  you  know,  which  every  man  heard  according 
as  he  was  born." 

"  Was  there  ] "  drawled  Flip  supremely.  "  I  s'pose  I  'm  not  to 
the  manner  born  at  all,  then." 

"  Or  have  n't  got  hungry  enough  in  the  wilderness,  perhaps," 
said  France,  going  back  to  her  cards. 

"  What  a  lot  there  is  of  it,  alwiz,"  said  Flip  precisely,  as  he 
thought,  and  turning  the  leaves  without  lifting  the  book.  "  All 
that 's  a  hard  road  to  travel  just  to  come  at  a  few  particular 
kinks  the  man  has  got  in  his  head." 

"  It 's  a  long  climb  up  Thumble,"  remarked  France  demurely, 
accenting  delicately  the  "  climb." 

"  I  say  ! "  cried  Flip,  falling  into  more  elegant  English  than 
he  knew,  "  don't  haul  me  over  Thumble  again  !  " 

"  Those  great  sweet  berries  don't  grow  anywhere  else,"  said 
France. 

Flip  laughed,  and  flashed  his  eyes  at  her  again  from  under 
his  hat-brim. 

"  I  say ! "  he  repeated,  just  as  if  he  had  been  reading  inter 
national  stories,  and  perhaps  he  had,  "  you  can  hit  fine.  You  'd 
do  to  preach,  yourself.  But  what  do  you  suppose  our  minister 
would  think  to  see  you  playin'  cards  1 " 

"  He  would  think  it  just  what  it  is,  —  a  game  of  patience." 

"  If  he  should  just  come  up  now,  he  'd  —  " 

"  He  'd  take  his  hat  off  first  of  all,  Mr.  Merri weather,"  inter 
rupted  the  minister  lightly,  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
as  he  came  up  by  France's  side  from  behind  her.  Flip  Merri- 
weather,  of  course,  facing  the  piazza-end,  had  been  watching 
him  across  the  grass  sward. 

Flip  laughed  again ;  but  somehow  the  next  instant  the  "big 
pyramid  "  was  lying  on  the  settee  beside  Mr.  Kingsworth's  panama. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  had  drawn  up  a  chair.  France  made  a 
motion  to  sweep  her  cards  together. 


122  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

"  Don't  do  that,"  said  Bernard.  "  I  would  like  to  be  shown 
'  patience '  presently." 

"  It  is  Egyptian  patience,"  she  said,  "  which  I  believe  is 
rather  obstinate." 

"The  patience  of  Pharaoh1?  I  should  infer  so,"  said  Mr. 
Kingsworth,  smiling. 

"  Mr.  Merriweather,"  said  France,  reinforced  in  some  mental 
strength,  if  not  her  patience,  "  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  hand 
me  the  book  if  you  have  done  with  it  1  I  am  reverent  of  Mac- 
douald,"  addressing  herself  to  the  minister,  and  smoothing  the 
paper  covers  of  the  volume.  "  I  buy  him  in  paper  and  then  I 
have  him  bound  more  honorably,  as  you  do  not  find  him  bound 
yet  in  the  book-shops." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  man,  Miss  France  1 "  asked  Bernard. 

"Yes.  I  don't  know,  that  is,  whether  it  was  the  man  or 
the  angel  of  him,  Mr.  Kingsworth.  It  was  what  always  — " 
France  stopped.  She  could  not  quote  Scripture  unreservedly, 
though  it  often  came  close  to  her  speech,  of  certain  things. 

"  Beholds  the  face  of  the  Father,"  Mr.  Kiugsworth  finished. 
"  I  can  believe  that." 

"  I  saw  him  in  the  pulpit,  when  he  stood  up  in  the  place  of 
the  Prophet  Isaiah,  and  read  '  Comfort  ye  my  people,'  as  if  it  had 
just  been  given  to  him,  and  had  never  been  heard  before.  And 
then  he  spoke  —  between  the  people  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
and  the  glory  on  the  top  of  it,"  said  the  girl,  blushing  at  her 
own  enthusiasm,  yet  carried  on  by  it,  nevertheless.  "After 
that,  I  did  not  care  to  see  him  in  the  parlors,  being  introduced 
to  all  the  silly,  curious  people,  —  as  well  as  to  the  real  ones,  — 
and  eating  ice-creams." 

"  I  should  n't  suppose  he  objected  to  the  refreshment,"  said 
Flip  Merriweather. 

"  Of  the  ice-creams  1  I  should  think  not,"  returned  France, 
with  a  perfectly  grave  face.  And  there  was  a  slight  pause. 

"What  do  you  think  of  George  Eliot  1"  Flip  asked  suddenly, 
with  the  air  of  coming  down  upon  something  weaker  with  a 
tremendous  bomb-shell  of  greatness. 

"  I  think  she  is  Thumble  without  the  berries,"  France  answered 
quietly. 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  123 

The  minister  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  —  a  quick,  pleased 
smile,  —  but  added  nothing,  except  that,  to  her  remark. 

"  You  were  asking  about  the  Osmundas  the  other  day,"  he 
said  presently.  "  I  have  brought  one  or  two  numbers  of '  Eaton ' 
to  show  you."  And  taking  up  a  flat  parcel  that  lay  under  the 
panatna,  he  untied  the  cover  and  opened  the  leaves  to  the 
"  Osmunda  Regalis." 

There  it  stood,  in  color,  on  the  page,  —  a  great  sheaf,  rearing 
its  fronds,  crownlike,  and  just  bending  them  outward  in  stately 
circle  ;  a  grandly  gracious  thing,  speaking  its  word  of  the  world 
in  plainest  gesture.  France  looked  at  it,  aware  of  the  word  in 
such  wise  as  to  keep  silent. 

Flip  Merriweather  looked  too ;  he  moved  slightly  nearer,  along 
the  red  settee,  to  do  so ;  Mr.  Kingsworth,  holding  the  book,  met 
his  movement  as  slightly,  not  withdrawing  it  from  France. 

After  a  moment,  Mr.  Kingsworth  turned  the  page. 

"  I  was  interested  in  this,"  he  said,  "  about  the  name  '  Os- 
munder,  the  Saxon  name  for  Thor.'  Thor  the  Strong,  who 
slays  the  giants  with  his  hammer,  you  know.  And  yet,  the 
Saxon  '  Osmund,'  means,  some  say,  Peace,  and  some  say, 
The  Protection  of  God ;  also,  '  Osmund  the  Waterman '  was 
the  name  of  the  plant  in  olden  time  ;  the  white  part  of  the  root 
being  good  for  bruised  and  beaten  hurts,  hurts  caused  by  fall 
ing  from  high  places.  This  white  pith  was  called  '  The  Heart  of 
Osmund  the  Waterman.'  And  again,  '  Another  old  name  was 
St.  Christopher's  (the  Christbearer's )  Herb.'  The  thunder 
and  the  slaying,  yet  also  the  peace ;  the  hurling  down  from 
high  places,  then  the  healing  of  the  bruised  and  beaten. 
The  '  Heart  of  Osmund '  means  something  like  the  heart  of 
the  Great  Helper.  The  Christbearer's  herb  grows,  high  and 
beautiful  and  self-revelant,  in  the  weeping,  waste  places, 
under  the  dangerous  crags.  There  is  a  '  correspondence '  in 
that,  Miss  France." 

France  turned  back  to  the  beautiful  drawing,  saying  nothing. 

Flip  Merriweather  slipped  back  to  his  further  place  on  the 
red  settee.  "  You  could  make  things  like  that  out  anywhere,  — 
of  anything,  —  could  n't  you  ?  "  he  asked  of  Mr.  Kingsworth. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  simply  answered,  "  Yes." 


124  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

Flip  was  baffled  by  the  assent,  which  agreed  to  something  in 
his  words  he  had  not  meant  in  them. 

France  sat  still,  still  looking  at  the  Osmunda,  growing  so 
low  in  the  waste  places,  yet  so  high  and  fair  and  precious ; 
waiting,  "  self-revelant "  indeed,  below  the  hard  heights  of  the 
world,  whence  one  might  fall  to  be  broken.  Waiting  there, 
with  gift  of  peace.  What  did  it  all  mean  to  her  1  It  seemed 
to  say  something,  —  further  on,  as  if  she  had  not  come  quite  to 
the  clear  hearing  of  it,  —  into  a  waiting,  listening  place  of  her 
life  that  would  receive  it.  As  if  she  would  be  ready  for  it 
some  time,  and  that  then  it  would  be  there. 

"  I  said  '  make '  things,  Mr.  Kingsworth,"  resumed  Flip. 

"  I  thought  you  said  '  make  out.'  But,  either  way,  what  do 
you  make  of  the  making  ] " 

"  It  is  n't  finding,  is  it  ?  The  thing  may  n't  be  there  till  you 
make  it." 

"  I  think  we  are  all  finders,  Philip."  Mr.  Kingsworth  always 
gave  him  his  name,  imputing  the  growing  and  the  outgrowing. 
"  There  is  only  one  Maker." 

"  They  are  fixed  so  that  you  can  find  them  anyhow,  though, 
according  to  your  own  make  :  it 's  the  shape  of  your  head." 

"Precisely.  And  there  is  the  same  maker  —  or  mender  — 
of  that." 

"  If  we  were  all  turned  out  of  one  mould,  there  would  n't  be 
much  account  in  it,  I  should  say.  There  might  as  well  be 
only  one  of  us." 

"  Instead  of  that,  there  is  only  one  truth,  and  all  of  us,  and 
all  our  different  ways  and  measures  of  seeing  it." 

"  Supposing  you  don't  see  it  at  all  1 " 

"  There  is  still  the  outside,  the  parable  of  it,  waiting,  as  it 
was  put  there  to  do." 

"  Does  n't  that  beg  the  question  1     How  do  you  know  1 " 

" '  I  will  open  my  month  in  parables.  I  will  utter  things 
kept  secret  from  the  foundation  of  the  world.'  You  understand 
the  ablative  case,  Philip  1  " 

"  '  With,  from,  in,  or  by  "?  that  much,"  Flip  answered,  laugh 
ing.  He  was  pleased  with  his  little  bit  of  academy  Latin  com 
ing  in,  being  appealed  to. 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,    ETC.  125 

"Then  suppose  we  read  'in,'  or  'by,'  instead  of  'from,'  'the 
foundation  of  the  world '  1  Is  n't  there  something  in  that  which 
explains  the  putting  there  1 " 

"  If  you  take  it  so.     It 's  the  shape  of  your  head,  after  all." 

"  '  Therefore  speak  I  to  them  in  parables  :  because  they  see 
ing  see  not ;  and  hearing  they  hear  not,  neither  do  they  un 
derstand.  .  ..  .  Lest  at  any  time  they  should  see  with  their 
eyes,  and  hear  with  their  ears,  and  should  understand  with 
their  heart,  and  should  be  converted,  and  I  should  heal  them,' " 
quoted  Mr.  Kingsworth  again.  "  That  is  the  heart  of  the  healer, 
waiting  for  them  that  shall  fall  down  from  their  '  mountain.' " 

But  Flip  was  still  only  climbing  his  mountain.  He  was 
pleased  at  every  clutch  and  foothold  he  got,  that  seemed  to  lift 
him  higher. 

"  And  yet  the  fog  is  put  there  on  purpose  !  it  says  so,"  —  the 
boy  did  not  dare  say  "  He,"  —  "  '  lest '  they  should  see,  and  un 
derstand,  —  and  the  rest  of  it !  That 's  just  the  way.  Why 
could  n't  it  be  plain,  if  it  meant  to  be  1 " 

"  Suppose  you  fasten  the  door,  at  night,  '  lest '  any  unauthor 
ized  person  should  come  in1?" 

"Well,  I  do  exactly  that,"  said  Flip,  wondering  what  it 
justified  in  respect  of  a.  door  that  he  was  contending  should  be 
freely  open. 

"And  suppose  you  leave  it  unlocked  'lest'  your  brother 
should  come  home  at  midnight  1 " 

Whether  he  was  puzzled,  or  whether  he  began  to  see,  Flip 
made  no  answer. 

"  Don't  you  see  there  are  two  'lests,'  — a  providing  against, 
and  a  providing  for  ]  "  asked  the  minister.  "  Take  those  words 
with  the  second  '  lest.'  '  I  speak  to  them  these  things  in  para 
bles  ;  I  put  them  away,  in  their  memory,  as  in  my  creation ; 
so  that  they  may  see,  even  without  perceiving,  and  hear,  even 
if  they  cannot  understand  ;  in  case  that  at  any  time,  they 
should  see  with  their  spiritual  eyes,  and  hear  with  their  spirit 
ual  ears,  and  understand  with  the  very  heart  of  them,  and  be 
converted,  and  I  should  heal  them.'  Isn't  the  waiting  there,  in 
those  words  1 " 

"You  have  altered  a  good  many  of  them." 


126  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

"  I  have  chosen  between  those  two  '  lests,' "  said  Mr.  Kings- 
worth.  "  That  interpreted  all  the  sentence,  which  I  tried  to 
translate,  not  change.  Because,  otherwise,  how  do  they  agree 
with  those  different  words,  —  '  I  am  come  unto  you  that  ye 
might  have  life  ' ;  and  '  I  came  to  call  the  sinners '  ]  " 

Flip  was  not  quite  so  instant  with  his  word  of  objection  this 
time.  There  was  something  in  those  sentences  that  claimed,  at 
least,  the  separateness  of  a  moment  between  them  and  any 
smaller  speaking.  But  he  was  only  decently  waiting,  —  though 
the  waiting  might  have  argued  something  with  him  if  he  had 
questioned  it,  —  and  the  rejoinder  was  on  his  lips. 

"That  is  proving  things  by  the  Bible,"  he  said.  "Have  n't 
you  got  first  to  prove  the  Bible  1 " 

"  Have  you  got  first  to  prove  Euclid  before  you  can  take  the 
facts  of  Euclid  1 " 

"  Euclid  proves  himself,  all  along.  There  is  n't  anything  to 
argue  about  but  the  facts,  and  they  settle  themselves." 

"So  I  think." 

.  "  I  suppose  you  mean  you  think  so  about  the  Bible.  But 
people  do  stuff  the  whole  thing  at  you,  —  hide,  hoofs,  and 
horns.  Do  you  believe  every  word  in  it,  —  as  you  do  in  Euclid, 
—  Mr.  Kingsworth  ? "  Flip  asked~this  question  deliberately, 
his  eyes  not  flashing,  but  fixed,  full  and  wide  open,  upon  Mr. 
Kingsworth's,  as  if  he  meant  to  know  ;  as  if  he  put  the  man  on 
common  sense  and  honor,  to  answer  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  believe  or  understand,  Philip?  Perhaps  I  do  not 
yet  understand,  to  receive,  all  geometry,  but  I  know  enough  to 
believe  that  the  rest  is  there." 

"  I  mean,  don't  you  run  against  anything  in  it  that  you  can't 
believe  ]  What  do  you  do  about  Jonah  and  the  whale  1 " 

"  At  which  end  of  a  proposition  do  you  begin  ]  At  that 
which  you  have  already  come  to  see,  so  as  to  start  from,  or  at 
the  Q.  E.  D.I"  asked  Mr.  Kingsworth,  smiling.  "I  don't  think 
I  need  take  the  story  of  Jonah  at  the  whale  end !  There  is 
something  in  it  which  I  know  already.  In  myself,  in  other 
men,  and  elsewhere  in  the  Bible,  —  which  I  may  as  well  say  at 
first  I  take  as  an  inside  story  of  things,  —  I  find  that  which  shows 
how  it  concerns  me  and  the  world,  a  reason  why  it  was  put 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,    ETC.  127 

there  in  Jonah's  life,  and  in  the  poem  of  it.  I  see  men  every 
day,  I  find  myself,  starting  off  on  wrong  tracks,  turning  away 
from  God's  errand,  and  getting  storm-beaten  and  afraid.  I  find 
that  consciousness  waking  up,  full  of  dread,  which  says,  '  I, 
myself,  am  the  fault  of  it;  through  my  self-will  it  has  gone 
wrong  for  me  and  for  others  :  cast  me  into  the  sea,  let  me  go  ! 
I  have  cast  myself  there  already,  I  have  foundered  myself,  but 
the  ship  must  be  saved.'  And  then,  for  a  time,  I  know  a  great 
darkness,  mercifully  prepared  of  the  Lord,  may  seize  upon  the 
man  who  comes  to  the  saying  of  that ;  and  for  three  days  and 
three  nights  —  a  time  that  seems  complete  of  his  whole  life, 
and  to  be  the  end  and  upshot  of  it,  and  rounded  into  a  concep 
tion  of  eternity  —  I,  or  that  man,  may  be  so  swallowed  of  a 
mighty,  terrible  creature  of  truth,  which  is  an  experience  and  a 
fact  of  it,  may  be  so  in  its  power  and  devoured  of  it,  as  '  out 
of  the  belly  of  it,'  '  out  of  the  belly  of  hell,'  to  cry  at  last  unto 
the  Lord  of  me  and  of  the  creature,  and  say,  '  I  am  cast  out 
of  thy  sight ;  yet  will  I  look  toward  thy  Holy  Temple  ! '  And 
when  the  man  has  been  brought  to  that,  it  is  a  little  thing  for 
the  Lord  to  lead  that  great  circumstance  of  his,  which  he  had 
prepared  and  commanded,  and  to  '  speak  unto  it '  that  it  shall 
cast  forth  his  Jonah,  the  soul  of  his  child,  upon  the  fair,  dry 
land ;  and  then  '  the  word  of  the  Lord '  comes  unto  Jonah  the 
second  time,  '  unto  salvation.'  " 

The  boy,  whose  cavils  were  secondhand,  borrowed  of  what  he 
fancied  the  last  word  of  human  progress  and  the  overgrowing 
of  baby  myths,  and  who  really  had  never  so  much  as  read  for 
himself  the  mighty  soul-epic  of  the  prophet,  but  who  only  knew 
by  hearsay,  and  perhaps  by  a  curious  skimming  of  the  external 
of  the  text  so  far  as  related  to  the  heresay  merely,  —  that  a  man 
had  once  been  said  to  have  been  swallowed  by  a  fish,  and  vom 
ited  up  again,  —  stopped  where  he  was  left  by  Bernard  Kings- 
worth  ;  and  that  was  in  the  Joppa  from  which  he  had  not  started 
yet^even  for  Tarshish,  to  flee  from  any  word  of  the  Lord  that 
had  so  much  as  come  to  him. 

Mother  Heybrook  had  brought  out  the  empty  baskets,  and 
hearing  that  which  was  being  spoken,  had  sat  down  again,  and 
heard  it  through. 


128  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

"  There 's  odd  things  in  the  Bible,  certin,"  she  said  in  her 
sweet  old-lady's  voice.  "  And  so  there  is  in  things  an'  in 
people ;  but  when  I  come  across  'em,  I  jest  say  to  myself, 
'  There  ain't  ever  an  odd  that  ain't  half  an  even,'  and  the.  other 
half  is  sure  to  fit  on  somewheres." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth,  —  he  did  not  ask 
directly  of  anybody ;  but  his  sense  was  now  of  France  Ever- 
idge's  face,  full  of  some  inward  movement  of  light,  as  it  had 
left  the  fern-drawing,  and  rested  itself  upon  the  far,  gray 
mountain,  —  "  do  you  remember  '  the  sign  of  the  prophet 
Jonah '  that  was  all  there  was  to  be  for  the  generation  of  the 
world  that  looked  only  for  outside  proving]  I  doubt  if  that 
generation,  as  the  Lord  counts  generations,  has  yet  passed 
away.  I  doubt  if  the  Son  of  man,  as  regards  that  genera 
tion,  be  not  yet  'buried  in  the  heart  of  the  earth,'  and  if  the 
world  may  not  have  to  cry  out  like  Jonah  before  the  soul  of  it 
can  be  set  free.  I  think,  also,  that  He  knew  the  truth  about 
that  story,  when  He  quoted  it  to  the  people  against  their 
unbelief." 

"  It 's  the  other  half,  ain't  it  1 "  asked  simple  Mrs.  Heybrook. 
And  Bernard  Kingsworth's  smile  shone  over  his  face  again,  as  he 
turned  it  toward  her  for  reply. 

Flip  Merri weather  picked  up  his  two  baskets  and  his  straw 
hat. 

"  I  did  not  altogether  answer  your  question,  Philip,"  Mr. 
Kingsworth  said,  rising  with  him.  "  I  do  believe  the  Christian 
Bible, — for  the  Old  Testament  was  the  Scripture  which  the 
Lord  said  '  testified '  of  him  while  he  was  living  the  New,  —  is 
the  book  of  divine  truth,  told  in  the  divine  language  of  truth, 
which  is  that  in  the  very  signs  of  things  and  of  events;  as 
much  as  I  believe  and  see  that  the  books  of  Euclid  are  the 
texts  of  essential  mathematical  knowledge,  told  in  the  lan 
guage,  which  proves  itself,  of  lines  and  angles.  I  hardly  care 
to  reason  about  it  historically  and  externally,  any  more  than  I 
care  to  know  all  about  the  '  father  of  mathematics,'  and  who 
fathered  him,  before  I  accept  his  axioms  and  solutions.  And 
until  a  man  has  searched  the  Christian  Scriptures  for  what  they 
integrally  are,  I  hardly  think  him  qualified  to  argue  as  to  how 
they  came  about." 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,  ETC.  129 

It  was  all  said  in  a  very  quiet,  conversational  tone,  even  with 
a  deference  in  it  of  answering  a  question  that  inferred  the  ques 
tioner  "a  man"  and  in  earnest ;  and  Flip  Merriweather,  though 
his  blue  eyes  still  twinkled  unabashed,  and  his  smooth,  round 
chin  held  itself  unrelaxed  with  any  conscious  "  taking  down," 
was  perhaps  a  shade  nearer  in  that  moment  to  becoming  a  man 
and  in  earnest,  and  so  learning  how  to  be  taken  down  that  he 
might  be  helped  up  again,  than  he  had  ever  come  before. 

"  That  has  n't  gone  more  than  skin-deep  after  all,"  said  Miss 
Ammah,  as  the  boy  went  off.  "  The  question  is  more  with  him 
about  swallowing  whales  than  getting  swallowed  by  them  or  by 
anything  else,  and  will  be  for  a  while.  It  seems  to  me  that 
people  up  here  are  divided  into  those  who  won't  swallow  and 
those  who  think  they  have  swallowed  all  that  is  required.  I 
should  think  it  would  be  hopeless  work  preaching  in  Fellaiden." 

"  To  preach  anywhere,  Miss  Ammah,  one  needs  to  keep  in 
mind  that  preaching  and  praying  are  really  the  same  word. 
If  one  had  to  find  it  in  one's  self,  or  make  place  for  it  in  others, 
it  would  be  hopeless,  —  hopeless  and  thankless." 

"  There  is  the  same  thing  everywhere,"  said  France.  "  All 
the  school-boys  and  the  very  little  children  in  the  Sunday- 
schools  are  trying  their  small  hands  at  tipping  over  the  theol 
ogies.  I  had  a  little  girl  ask  me,  what  made  God  tell  the 
children  of  Israel  not  to  kill  when  he  had  just  killed  all  the 
Egyptians  1  And  then  a  boy  spoke  up  and  said,  '  Yes,  and  he 
was  marching  them  right  straight  along  to  kill  all  the  Ites  in 
Canaan.'  " 

"  What  did  you  tell  them,  Miss  France  ? " 

"  I  said  I  did  n't  know ;  and  I  went  to  the  superinteiideW 
that  day  after  school,  and  gave  up  my  class." 

"  Did  he  ask  your  reason  ? " 

"Yes,  and  I  told  him  I  didn't  understand  the  ten  com 
mandments." 

"  Not  understand  them  to  keep  them  1  Could  you  say 
that  ? " 

"  I  could  n't  teach  them." 

"  Don't  you  mean  you  could  n't  teach  God's  keeping  of  them  1 
Did  n't  you  let  the  whale  swallow  you,  then,  Miss  France  T' 

9 


130  ODD,    OR    EVEN? 

"  Perhaps  I  did,  but  it  was  a  whale." 

"  Which  proves  the  essence  of  the  story  of  Jonah." 

"What  would  you  have  told  those  children,  Mr.  Kings- 
worth  ?  The  worst  was,  I  was  sure  that  behind  the  children 
were  the  grown  people.  They  did  n't  think  of  all  that  for  them 
selves,  any  more  than  Mr.  Flip  stumbled  originally  over  Jonah. 
What  would  you  have  told  them  ] " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  maybe  something  like  this  :  those  com 
mandments  are  very  great.  God  knows  the  whole  of  them.  We 
only  know  them  as  we  do  them.  Perhaps  until  God  gets  a  world 
of  men  ready  to  work  for  Him,  who  have  learned  them  by  doing 
them  through  and  through  to  the  very  highest  they  can  make 
of  them,  He  will  manage  the  world  as  it  chooses  to  be  man 
aged,  by  binding  and  hindering  and  punishing  and  killing,  just 
as  He  lets  fire  burn  and  water  drown  and  all  men  die  once, 
that  He  may  save  their  lives  forever  and  ever.  God  knows. 
That  is  all  I  know  :  and  we  are  to  do  as  He  has  said,  if  we  want 
to  know  Him  and  His  ways  and  have  Him  govern  us  as  He 
governs  the  angels.  And  then  I  might  have  remembered  that 
we,  in  our  day,  have  the  New  Testament  alongside  the  Old,  and 
that  that  is  just  why  we  can  pick  flaws  in  the  stories  of  the  Old. 
The  very  flaws  God  let  be  there  that  men  might  come  to  see 
them.  I  might  have  told  them  what  the  Lord  has  said  about 
keeping  His  commandments,  and  that  to  kill  was  to  be  even  so 
much  as  angry  with  one's  brother  without  a  cause." 

"  You  were  not  there,  Mr.  Kingsworth,"  said  France  gravely. 
"  And  the  time  is  full  of  such  flaw-picking,  and  the  right  man 
^fcardly  anywhere  to  show  the  right  side  of  things." 

'"'And  yet  'the  Son  of  man  is  in  the  heart  of  the  earth'; 
not  dead  and  buried  there,  but  the  living  centre  and  reason  of 
things.  That  is  why  the  earth  trembles  and  quakes ;  and  in 
the  very  clouds  that  hide  and  hinder  He  will  come  by  and  by. 
He  is  coming  with  his  glory." 

"  I  wish  you  could  talk  to  people  I  hear  talk,"  said  France, 
"  even  people  in  pulpits." 

For  France,  in  her  young  heart,  longing  for  the  truth  to  be 
true,  as  every  fresh  heart  does,  had  been  troubled  in  her  world  ; 
in  the  social  tone,  in  the  things  written  and  read  and  discussed ; 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  131 

in  her  own  home,  with  the  practical  motive  of  life,  and  with  the 
expressed  philosophy  of  it  when,  after  a  Sunday  sermon,  per 
haps,  or  the  report  of  some  noted  lecture,  or  of  some  new  idea 
or  theory  advanced  in  an  advance  paper,  right  and  revelation 
and  providence,  —  yes,  and  virtually  the  very  fact  of  a  God, 
with  a  God's  heart  that  is  human-infinite,  and  a  God's  thought 
and  knowledge  that  are  thinking  thought  and  working  knowl 
edge,  like,  only  including,  the  actual  thoughts  and  knowledges 
of  men,  —  came  to  be  mooted  and  vexed  and  muddled  with 
half-arguments,  and  confused  with  irrelevancy,  and  put  by  into 
a  hopeless  limbo,  to  be  drawn  forth  again  another  time,  only 
for  a  like  handling  and  a  like  vague  dismissal,  perhaps  in  con 
sequence,  largely,  of  the  pulpit  handling  which  she  spoke  of; 
which  was  getting  to  be  as  vague,  as  ambiguous,  as  half-hearted, 
as  apologetic,  in  reference  to  the  very  soul  and  centre  and  life 
of  these  things,  —  the  Lord  Christ  himself,  —  as  men  were  with 
the  points  that  perplexed  them,  and  made  them  doubtful  when 
they  tried  to  look,  without  Christ,  at  problems  of  right  and 
providence,  and  what  was  to  come  of  human  life.  "  Duty,  God, 
immortality,"  —  the  very  slogan  of  the  pulpit,  —  these  were 
getting  to  be  as  dead  words  as  the  motto  of  the  French  Re 
public,  because  the  ideas  of  them  were  becoming  separated  from 
the  thought  and  recognition  of  the  living  Lord,  —  the  only 
way  and  truth  and  life  ;  —  dead  branches  broken  from  him,  and 
crumbling  in  men's  hands  who  would  make  staves  of  them. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  France  Everidge  was  beginning 
to  get  a  live  answer  to  things ;  to  one  thing  at  a  time,  without 
a  forcing  of  all  else  in  heavens  and  earths,  —  except  the  author 
ity  of  Him  who  came  down  that  He  might  join  the  heavens  and 
the  earths,  —  into  the  research. 

"They  won't  let  you  alone  without  all  the  old  heathen," 
said  Miss  Ammah.  "  You  need  n't  say  anything,  —  and  you  're 
a  fool  if  you  think,  —  unless  you  know  all  about  Confucius  and 
Zoroaster  and  Buddha,  and  can  read  Sanscrit,  and  have  been 
brought  up  on  the  Zend-Avesta  as  well  as  on  King  James's 
English  Bible  ;  and  unless  you  are  up  to  the  last  discovery  of 
how  Moses  got  his  notions  of  creation,  and  of  how  the  greater 
part  of  Genesis  was  picked  up  first  in  Assyria." 


132  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

"  Does  it  make  any  differ'nce  1 "  said  Mrs.  Heybreok,  chang 
ing  her  needle,  and  stretching  down  the  leg  of  the  sock  she  was 
knitting.  "  Don't  I  get  my  clear  water,  runnin'  right  into  my 
dairy  the  whole  blessed  time,  through  the  spouts  from  the  hill  1 
and  has  n't  the  spring  been  there  in  the  hill  ever  sence  the  hill 
was  there  ?  an'  what  if  there  alwers  was  other  hills  and  springs 
and  spouts,  —  in  Khau-Tartary,  perhaps  1  Don't  the  water  all 
come  from  the  sea,  an'  has  n't  the  sea  and  the  sun  and  the 
clouds  got  the  whole  working  of  it  I  Shall  I  go  and  break  up  my 
spouts,  an'  go  athout  my  water,  'cause  I  don'  know,  exactly, 
about  spouts  and  dairies  in  Cochin-Chiny  ?  That 's  the  way 
some  folks  talks,  clear  up  here  in  Fellaiden,  even." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  why,  Mrs.  Heybrook,"  said  Miss  Ammah  com 
posedly.  "  It 's  just  because  they  want  to  get  rid  of  making  the 
butter." 

"  Which  brings  us  back  to  the  way  of  understanding  the  com 
mandments,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth. 

"Jest  go  t'  work  and  'tend  t'  your  butter  an'  things,  an'  then 
you  '11  see  the  good  o'  the  spouts.  An'  there  't  is  ;  I  've  got  to 
see  to  that  bermonge  I  made  for  Tryphosy ;  it  must  go  down 
with  the  trouts,"  and  good  Mrs.  Heybrook  was  up  and  off  again. 

France  had  begnn  replacing  her  cards.  The  wind  of*  the 
mountain  had  swept  them  gently  together,  the  one  under  the 
other.  In  her  mind  was  this  thought  :  — 

The  Great  Pyramid  workers  worked  under  command,  just  by 
inch  and  cubit ;  and  they  came  out  in  agreement  with  the 
sun  and  the  stars ;  and  in  the  middle  of  it  was  that  man-meas 
ure,  nothing  else  ;  but  the  way  to  that  was  the  history  of 
heavens  and  earth.  I  wonder  if  it  was  made  for  chronology  and 
sky-pointing ;  or  if  it  had  to  be  trne  with  them,  being  true  with 
itself1?  I  wonder  if  the  pyramid  was  built  less  for  a  stone(  mira 
cle  of  revelation  than  to  show  how  everything  that  stands  on 
the  right  foundation-line,  and  builds  up  by  perfect  inches, 
comes  to  what  tells  of  all  the  miracles,  and  stands  straight  up 
under  the  sun,  so  that  all  the  sun-measures  are  in  it1? —  "Mr. 
Kingsworth,"  she  put  her  question  aloud,  "  did  n't  the  pyramid 
just  turn  out  so,  do  you  suppose,  because  of  that  beginning, 
and  keeping  on,  upon  the  right  inch  1  and  did  n't  it  get  square 


MOUNTAIN-FOGS,   ETC.  133 

with  astronomy  and  history  exactly  because  it  was  first  square 
with  the  daylight,  without  Melchisedek,  or  anybody,  knowing 
how  it  was  to  be  1 " 

Mr.  Kingsworth  showed  no  perception  of  disconnection  in  the 
quick  propounding  of  this  apparently  fresh  matter. 

"  I  do  not  think  Melchisedek  —  if  he  was  the  human  archi 
tect  —  did  know  it  all,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course  the  Lord  knew,"  France  answered,  in  her  mind 
again  ;  and  with  the  word  there  revealed  itself  to  her,  instantly, 
something  that  had  not  come  to  her  in  force  before.  That  think 
ing  Thought  and  working  Knowledge, — that  divinely-human 
might  of  intellect,  moving  as  a  man's  brain  moves,  but  with 
the  origination  of  'all  the  truths  that  a  man's  brain  labors  dimly 
after  in  the  sciences  ;  determining  them  into  laws  and  work 
ing  with  them,  tools  of  its  substance,  to  make  worlds.  And 
the  Heart,  whose  desire  is  father  of  every  fact,  pulsing  as  the 
heart  of  a  man  pulses,  but  with  infinite  and  almighty  wish 
toward  the  children  for  whom  it  waits  in  the  midst  of  its  unap 
proachable  knowledges,  —  the  Lamb  in  the  midst  of  the  throne, 
—  until  by  little,  faint,  slow  degrees,  touching  the  hem  of  the 
garment,  they  may  come  to  know  that  it  does  wait  for  them ; 
that  it  is  the  end  and  intent  of  creation,  showing  itself;  the 
living  love  of  a  living  Person,  who  is  patient  through  such 
cycles  as  the  pyramid  measures,  with  souls  that  come,  —  blun 
dering,  wandering,  presuming,  denying,  returning,  —  to  that 
which  He  has  put  in  the  plainness  of  the  only  actual  speech, 
into  the  blazing  word  of  an  universe. 

Not  just  or  fully  in  such  syllables  did  the  thought  come  to 
her.  It  came  as  a  flash  upon  her  own  words,  "  Melchisedek,  or 
anybody,"  and  the  after-thought  implied  in  Bernard  Kings- 
worth's  answer,  "  The  Lord  knew."  It  was  a  glimpse  of  realiza 
tion,  such  as  truly  she  had  never  had  before,  of  that  Humanity 
which  created  human  beings. 

Before  anybody,  He  was  the  body  of  Himself,  purposing  all 
things  and  everybody,  worlds  full,  that  these  should  know 
themselves  to  be  because  He  was.  and  the  things  and  worlds  to 
be  because  He  meant  them.  It  is  only  in  a  flash,  from  out  the 
eternities,  that  we  see  light  like  that.  It  is  not  possible  to 


134  ODD,    OB   EVEN  ? 

write  it  down ;  yet  it  comes,  —  to  the  simple  and  to  the  chil 
dren. 

And  all  this  while  France  sat  with  those  little  patience  cards 
spread  out  before  her,  and  her  eyes  falling  upon  them  ;  her 
fingers,  even,  straightening  them  to  lie  parallel  with  each  other. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  was  looking  at  her  ;  he  saw  that  some 
thing,  without  his  saying,  was  saying  itself  to  her. 

They  all  sat  quiet  for  a  little  while ;  Miss  Ammah  pinching 
her  hems  by  her  card  rule,  the  minister  turning  over  the 
fern  illustrations,  as  if  for  something  he  had  meant  to  show. 
At  some  little  breath  or  movement  of  the  girl's,  however,  as 
of  one  come  back  again  into  things  just  around  her  from  an 
errand  that  had  called  her  quite  away,  he  put  the  numbers  of 
"  Eaton  "  together  in  a  closed  pile. 

"  I  will  leave  these  with  you,"  he  said.  "  You  may  find  some 
of  your  old  friends  among  them,  and  some  strangers  that  you 
will  learn  how  to  look  for.  Now,  Miss  France,  won't  you  teach 
me  your  patience  game  1 " 

I  think  it  very  likely  there  was  some  gentle  self-seeking,  as 
well  as  some  wise  sense  of  fitness,  in  his  thus  leaving  the  larger 
subjects  where  they  had  rested.  I  think  it  very  likely  that 
Bernard  Kingsworth  felt  some  desire  toward  a  simple,  every-day 
companionship.  He  did  not  by  any  means  wish  to  be  altogether 
in  the  pulpit,  or  to  wear  his  gown,  in  France  Everidge's  pres 
ence,  or  to  her  idea.  Perhaps,  even,  he  was  a  little  jealous  of 
himself,  when  he  remembered  himself  as  one  of  the  sons  of 
Aaron.  A  priest  may  be  a  priest  after  the  true  kingly  order, 
and  yet  be  wistful  of  a  little  ordinary  recognition  on  the  plane 
of  his  mere  fellow-creaturehood. 

When  Mother  Heybrook  came  out  to  bid  them  all  to  her 
supper  table,  upon  which  the  door  now  stood  open,  letting 
the  fragrant  tea-odor  and  the  smell  of  her  "  fire-cakes "  creep 
forth  with  their  own  irresistible  invitation,  Bernard  and  France 
were  laughing  like  any  two  young,  blithe-minded  persons,  over 
the  sudden  and  absurdly  easy  resolution  of  the  game  that  had 
pinned  them  to  some  twenty  minutes  of  the  most  labyrinthine 
calculation  before  they  had  dared  to  move  a  card. 


IN  THE   RING   OB   ON   THE   ROAD  ?  135 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IN  THE  RING    OR   ON   THE   ROAD? 

WHEN  a  subject  is  to  be  brought  to  people's  minds,  it  nearly 
always  bears  down  upon  them  from  two,  or  several  directions. 
It  is  as  if  the  divinity  that  approaches  us  with  its  purposes  that 
are  to  shape  our  ends  made  certain  sure  bee-lines  from  far-off 
points,  which  should  concentre  in  our  consciousness,  and,  meet 
ing,  kindle  there  some  force  that  should  work  in  us  toward  the 
inevitable,  that  seems  the  free  thought  and  the  free  chosen. 
The  very  books  we  read,  the  gossip  of  the  day,  chance 
encounters  and  reminders,  trifling  side  experiences,  all  pour  in 
their  drops  of  influence  to  swell  the  current  that  is  to  bear  us, 
even  when  we  think  we  are  bearing  ourselves  most  uncontrol- 
ledly  to  the  result. 

The  "  Marquis  of  Lossie  "  bore  down  with  its  large  "  other- 
worldliness"  and  its  grand«humanity-showing,  upon  the  puzzles 
and  prejudices  that  were  in  France's  mind,  and  working  there, 
more  than  she  knew,  upon  her  own  story  that  was  to  be. 

But  they  did  not  criticize  or  analyze  —  she  and  Miss  Amman 
—  the  "  Marquis  of  Lossie"  ;  it  stood  too  self-manifest  in  truth 
and  power,  too  evident  in  simple  presentation  of  that  which  is 
indisputable,  to  invite  dispute  or  questioning  comment.  Per 
haps  it  touched  too  quickly  the  livest,  sweetest,  most  secret 
springs  of  that  sentiment  in  France  which  responded  to  its 
more  than  charm  —  its  claim  on  the  true  and  earnest  and 
heaven-searching  in  her  —  to  permit  her  to  bring  it  to  any  ex 
ternal  judgment ;  even  to  praise  it,  or  declare  delight  in  it. 
France  had  read  it  through  to  Miss  Ammah  :  she  was  fond  of 
reading  aloud,  and  Miss  Ammah  was  fond  of  listening. 

Then  she  took  up  another  book,  one  that  had  come  from  the 
library.  It  was  a  clever  little  romance  enough,  an  English 
novel,  also ;  not  so  deep  or  inchisive  as  to  anticipate  query  or 


136  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

make  supplement  superfluous ;  they  paused  and  chatted  over 
it,  accordingly.  This  had  for  subject,  too,  the  circumstances, 
hardly  the  heart,  of  a  socially  unequal  marriage. 

At  the  same  time  —  another  bee-line  in  letters  from  home 
—  was  coming,  in  numbers,  the  development  of  a  Boston  story  of 
similar  drift,  in  actual  life ;  the  drifting  into  an  "  odd  engage 
ment  "  of  two  persons  whom  one  would  think,  from  the  Everidge 
look  at  it,  Providence  had  been  under  some  temporary  aberra 
tion  in  flinging  in  each  other's  way. 

A  girl  in  "  their  set,"  which  meant  the  set  that  was  theirs, 
if  any,  since  they  preferred  even  to  wait  at  its  sometimes  un 
certain  doors  rather  than  to  dwell  in  the  open,  hospitable  tents 
that  pitched  themselves  just  without,  had  gone  quite  down  into 
the  very  elements  of  society,  to  attach  herself  to  a  man  who  was 
really  nobody  from  nowhere,  —  a  mere  clerk  and  drummer  for 
one  of  the  hundreds  of  little  business  houses  somewhere  down 
town,  whom  her  brother  had  fallen  in  with  on  a  railway  jour 
ney  when  there  had  been  a  smash  and  a  scare,  a  good  many 
bad  hurts,  and  two  lives  lost ;  to  which  his  own  —  the  broth 
er's  —  might  have  added  a  third,  but  for  some  stout-hearted 
and  stout-muscled  help  that  the  young  drummer  stopped  to 
give  him,  when  stopping  made  a  question  of  his  own  life  at  the 
same  moment. 

The  brother  brought  the  drummer  to  the  house,  and  the 
ladies  condescended  to  him  ;  bent  graciously,  I  mean,  and  not 
without  a  certain  bravery  and  stoutness  of  their  own  that 
touched  the  mutual  social  life  as  his  bravery  had  concerned 
the  physical  when  he  had  come  with  it  to  their  avail.  One, 
the  youngest,  and  the  brother's  pet  companion,  did  not  bend. 
She  looked  upward  from  the  first,  as  one  receiving  grace.  But 
this  is  a  story  within  a  story.  I  have  to  do  with  nothing  but 
its  moral,  and  the  way  its  moral  came  to  Fellaiden. 

"I  think  people  are  '  idgets  ' !"  said  France,  with  a  quietness 
of  tone  that  hardly  justifies  an  exclamation  point,  but  a  force 
in  the  quietness  that  cannot  be  printed  without  it.  "  Are  men 
men,  and  women  women,  or  are  they  posts  that  just  keep  the 
social  stories  up,  and  that  can't  move  a  stair's  height  either 
way  without  bringing  all  the  building  down  1" 


IN   THE   RING   OB   ON   THE   ROAD  ?  137 

"  That  is  n't  quite  all,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  who  felt  it  in  her 
conscience  to  present  whatever  existed  for  presentation  to  this 
young  mind,  upon  the  family  side  of  the  society  question.  "  It 
is  as  men  and  women  that  they  are  likely,  in  most  cases,  to  be 
affected  by  such  differences.  You  see,  all  life  is  n't  romantic 
incident.  A  man  may  be  brave  —  " 

"  Gloriously  brave,"  put  in  France. 

"  Gloriously  brave  :  and  yet,  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
when  his  bravery  is  n't  demanded,  the  little  things  of  breeding 
and  habit  may  be ;  and  we  are  such  creatures  of  breeding  and 
habit,  and  the  little  things  do  so  make  up  life ;  and  to  have  had 
the  same  tastes,  ideas,  associations  is  so  much  between  people 
who  must  always  live  together  —  " 

"  Miss  Ammah,"  the  girl  interrupted,  and  then  paused  while 
she  counted  fifteen  stitches  for  her  vermilion-tinted  wool  in  her 
Turkish  pattern,  "  a  lady  would  n't  be  likely  to  marry  a  clown, 
of  course  ;  but  if  she  finds  a  nobleman,  who  simply  has  n't  come 
to  his  worldly  estate  or  had  advantage  of  it,  and  it  is  the  man 
and  the  noble  that  she  cares  to  pass  her  life  with,  —  I  should 
think  it  is  for  the  great  things  that  the  little  things  always 
grow  out  of,  in  a  life  or  a  generation  or  two,  that  she  would 
care,  rather  than  for  the  little  breedings  that  have  only  come 
down  with  the  teaspoons,  and  left  what  first  made  the  name, 
perhaps,  behind  them.  See  !  if  Evelyn  Westcott  had  married 
that  little  smoke-puff  of  a  Harry  Wardell,  that  whiffled  round 
her  last  winter,  nobody  would  have  been  astonished  ;  nobody 
would  have  cried  out  at  a  mismatch.  And  just  look  at  the  wo 
man  and  look  at  the  manikin  !  Is  n't  there  any  inequality  except 
between  a  West-end  avenue  and  a  South-end  cross-street  1  Or 
between  a  Court-square  office  and  a  way-down-town  sample- 
room  ] " 

"  Very  good  for  an  argument  as  to  the  nobleman  and  the 
manikin  ;  but,  my  dear  France,  first  catch  your  nobleman,  and 
grant  that  the  manikin  is  n't  inevitable  as  an  alternative,  or  in 
polite  circles.  And  remember,  in  your  early  wisdom,  that, 
until  your  creature  is  caught,  you  can't  thoroughly  determine, 
always,  between  Lepus  and  Leo.  You  can't  wholly  know  what 
a  man  is  until  you  've  married  him." 


138  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

"  You  can't  wholly  know  what  yourself  is  till  you  've  lived 
your  life  out,"  returned  France.  "  You  can't  see  your  whole 
day's  road  in  the  morning ;  but  you  know  which  way  you  want 
to  go,  and  people  who  mean  to  travel  together  must  at  least  be 
starting  the  same  way.  And  the  question  is  whether  they  are, 
either  or  both  of  them,  starting  at  all.  A  riding-school  ring 
does  n't  lead  anywhere." 

It  was  tolerably  plain  that  this  yoimg  woman  would  take  her 
head,  when  she  had  once  determined  in  what  direction  to  be 
headlong. 

Miss  Tredgold  left  the  main  track  of  argument,  and  shunted 
off  upon  an  old  turnout. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  Miss  Westcott's  affair,"  she 
said  ;  "  she  may  have  caught  her  nobleman.  But  the  girl  here 
in  the  book,  however  the  author  represents  it,  —  and  authors  do 
mostly  tell  two  different  things  in  pretending  to  tell  one ;  the 
actual  story,  which  speaks  for  itself  in  spite  of  them,  and  their 
interpretation  of  it,  which  they  have  to  be  as  ingenious  about 
as  people  are  with  their  own  consciences;  —  this  girl  in  the 
story  just  falls  in  love  from  mere  propinquity.  Somebody  else 
in  the  same  place  would  have  been  the  same,  as  they  would  in 
half  the  real  matches.  That  Js  what  a  woman  has  to  look  out 
—  I  mean  in  —  for,  in  questioning  her  own  mind." 

Miss  Ammah  thought  she  had  touched  the  subject  with  a 
very  skilful  wisdom  now.  It  was  well  to  have  suggested  that 
word  and  that  self-analysis  to  a  girl  like  France,  who,  even  in 
really  finding  a  nobleman,  must  not  too  hastily  find  him  to  be 
her  nobleman. 

But  France  took  her  up  with  that  curiously  veiled  force 
again. 

"  Propinquity  1  Dear  Miss  Ammah,  don't  you  say  that.  I 
detest  the  word.  It 's  as  if  one  could  n't  come  within  gunshot. 
It 's  like  that  miserable  coon,  —  '  Don't  fire ;  I  '11  come  down.' 
Women  are  not  like  that,  unless  it  is  with  each  other.  You 'can. 
be  thrown  with  a  girl  you  don't  care  a  pin  for,  and  be  cosy,  just 
because  she  is  another  girl ;  but  a  man,  —  you  've  either  got  to 
like  him  like  a  man,  or  hate  him  like  a  scorpion,  or  turn  out 
for  him  as  you  turn  out  for  a  toad." 


IN   THE  KING   OB   ON   THE   KOAD  ?  139 

She  said  it  all  without  a  single  exclamation  point  in  any  tone. 
Of  course  she  spoke  from  no  personal  feeling,  so  why  should 
she  exclaim  ] 

Meanwhile,  across  two  valley  hollows,  and  the  low  flanks  of 
two  spurs  of  the  great  intervening  hill,  on  a  strip  of  roadway 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  off  by  a  crow's  flight,  and  a  mile  or 
more  by  the  road-winding,  she  had  caught  a  keen  glimpse  of  a 
moving  speck  about  as  big  as  a  crawling  fly.  She  knew  the 
crawl  of  it,  which  was  not  a  fly-crawl,  however  modified  in  effect 
by  distance  and  foreshortening  of  line  of  motion  ;  and  she  knew 
that  Rael  Heybrook  was  coming  homeward  from  the  Gilley 
wood-lot. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Miss  Amman,  it  would  be  nice  up  in  the 
hay-mow  this  afternoon  1  I  've  a  mind  to  try  it.  Come,  and  I  '11 
finish  the  book  to  you." 

"  Come  ?  You  ]    How  will  you  get  there  1 " 

"I  feel  a  capability  in  my  bones,"  France  answered.  "I 
knew  it  would  be  there  again  some  day.  I  can  do  it  with  a 
stick." 

"But  the  stairs'?  Not  a  scrap  of  a  rail,  and  so  steep  and 
twisting !  You  might  be  helped  up,  but  I  could  n't  do  it. 
You  '11  have  to  wait,  I  guess,  till  somebody 's  at  home." 

"  I  don't  want  any  rail.  I  hate  help,"  she  said  quickly,  with 
a  venom  in  her  last  words  thrown  in  as  she  indignantly  per 
ceived  the  quibble  in  her  first,  "  and  I  've  a  kind  of  hankering 
for  something  steep  and  twisty.  I  can  kneel  up,  or  I  can  sit 
up ;  but  I  must  take  time  for  it,  so  come,  please.  I  know  you  'd 
like  it ;  and  the  big  windows  are  open,  and  the  west  wind  is 
blowing  through." 


140  ODD,    OB  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    HAY-PARLOR. 

THE  men  had  left  the  little  north-corner  loft  just  comfortably 
piled  with  the  new,  fragrant  hay-crop.  All  the  rest  of  the  barn 
buildings  —  a  chain  of  three  —  were  stack  full.  Miss  Ammah 
always  bargained  for  a  "  hay-parlor." 

Across  the  wide  window-space  above  the  doors  were  strong 
wooden  bars,  against  which,  half-way  up,  the  middle  mow 
pressed  its  affluent  bulk,  and  the  wind  swayed  pleasantly  the 
stray,  escaping  locks.  Over  the  bars  the  opening  of  the  heavy 
shutter  .left  a  breezy  space,  and  the  wide  cracks  in  the  side- 
boardings  of  the  old  barn  let  the  air  sift  through  in  a  sweet, 
•wandering  way,  even  down  in  the  low  north  corner;  and  the 
sunlight  lay  here  and  there  in  slender  golden  lines  across, 
making  the  tangled  stalks  show  an  intricate,  illumined  mesh- 
work. 

Quite  up  in  the  shade,  against  a  luxuriously  heaped  slope, 
they  sat  and  leaned,  —  Miss  Ammah  and  France  Everidge. 
Miss  Ammah  had  brought  book  and  baskets.  They  had  two 
hours  yet  before  the  early  tea-bell ;  Mrs.  Heybrook  was  resting 
in  her  bedroom ;  all  across  and  through  the  roadway,  doorway, 
open  house,  and  farmyard  dropped  delicious  silence ;  it  was  the 
luxury  of  absolute  uninterruptiou,  and  the  absence  of  all  claim 
upon  them.  At  first  it  was  too  delightful  for  anything  but 
itself.  Book  and  work  waited. 

"  There  is  n't  in  all  Commonwealth  Avenue  such  a  room,  such 
perfection  of  upholstery,  such  gilding,  such  conservatory  sweet 
ness,  as  here  ! "  said  France.  "  Dear  Miss  Ammah,  every  city 
covers  up  a  piece  of  the  country,  and  every  '  artistic '  living  — 
nobody  says  '  artificial '  now  —  covers  up  what  might  be  got 
straight  at,  like  this ! " 


THE   HAY-PARLOR.  141 

"  The  people  among  it  seem  hardly  to  get  it,  though,  as  we 
do,  who  come  on  purpose  for  it.  They  don't  have  time.  It  is 
too  hard  work  to  live,  —  to  make  the  hay  and  the  butter,  to 
plant  the  farm  and  feed  the  creatures,  and  provide  for  the  '  men- 
folks.'  " 

"  Might  n't  they  have  time  1  With  all  the  machines,  and  the 
bigger  way  of  doing  and  dealing,  there  might  be  a  way  of  farm 
living  that  should  keep  the  deliciousness  for  family  use.  I  sup 
pose  their  fashions  are  handed  down  from  the  old  times  of  the 
incessant  spinning  and  weaving  and  hand-sewing  in  the  house, 
and  the  hand-hoeing  and  mowing  in  the  fields.  They  do  have 
their  ways  of  being  fine,  too,  without  being  blessed.  They  sit 
in  their  '  best  rooms '  when  they  have  company  ;  when  out-doors 
the  hay-mows  are  the  real  best  rooms.  I  believe  I  — "  But 
what  France  believed  of  herself  she  did  not  go  on  to  say.  She 
did  not  go  on  to  say  anything  for  some  minutes.  A  kind  of 
dream  surged  or  floated  pleasantly  through  her  mind.  Of  how 
people,  knowing  something  of  how  to  choose  and  use  things, 
might  make  life  on  a  farm  like  this  as  big  and  as  beautiful  as 
"  all  out-doors,"  having  all  out-doors  for  its  summer  doing  and 
delight,  and  the  long  time-wealth  of  winter  for  its  in-drawing, 
its  thought-growth,  its  refining  ;  so  that  summer  and  winter, 
with  their  beauty  and  fulness,  should  play  into  each  other  with 
something  more  than  mere  seed-time  and  harvest,  physical  labor 
and  rest.  She  wondered  if  the  young  generation — if  the  young 
men  of  this  day,  with  this  day's  chance  for  getting  and  knowing 
—  would  do  like  their  fathers  ;  if  Israel  Heybrook,  for  instance, 
supposing  he  had  to  be  a  farmer  all  his  life,  would  n't  —  And 
then,  suddenly,  the  thought  took  vision-shape  of  some  home  that 
must  be  here  if  he  lived  on,  —  some  companionship,  some  woman- 
rule,  after  Mother  Heybrook's  day  was  done.  And  what  — 
whom  —  could  Israel  Heybrook  find,  or  bring  here,  for  that  1 
I  have  to  finish  out  a  sentence  which  was  no  sentence  with  her; 
was  only  a  perception,  which,  when  it  began  to  define  itself 
from  the  vague  mist  of  her  dream,  made  her  start,  and  feel  her 
very  thought  turn  hot  suddenly  in  her  heart.  What  business 
was  it  of  hers,  and  why  should  she  find  herself  planning  life  for 
this  farmer  Rael  ? 


142  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

This  farmer  Rael  at  this  moment  drove  his  wagon  into  the 
barnyard. 

Now,  of  course,  there  was  neither  offence,  nor  suspicion  of 
offence,  between  these  two,  the  young  man  and  the  young 
woman.  They  had  not  come  into  intimacy  near  enough  for 
that.  They  were  intimate  only  with  each  other's  phantasm. 
In  thought-image  they  had,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  come 
to  that  point  that  they  were  seldom  absent  the  one  from  the 
other ;  in  actual  presence,  all  that  differed  in  their  daily  place 
and  occupation,  all  that  was  utterly  unlike  in  circumstance,  the 
very  relation  that  set  them  briefly  under  the  same  roof,  held  them 
naturally  and  easily  apart,  if  they  would  have  it  so,  or  if  they 
would  not  positively  make  it  otherwise.  Miss  Everidge's  seclu 
sion,  and  Rael  Heybrook's  work  at  the  other  side  of  Fellaiden 
Hill,  had,  without  strangeness,  made  this  nearly  three  weeks' 
suspension  of  anything  that  could  be  named  as  intercourse. 
There  had  been  chance  for  kind  inquiry,  and  kind  thanks  in 
answer.  France  had  turned  pointedly  aside  from  nothing ;  she 
had  only  not  moved  toward  it,  and  Rael  could  not  possibly 
know  how  much  or  how  differently  she  might  have  moved. 

There  was  a  curious  delicacy  in  him,  also,  which,  perhaps, 
or  perhaps  not,  France  missed  taking  into  perceptive  account. 
He  would  not  linger  by  her  now,  in  her  enforced  stationari- 
ness,  when  he  found  her  surrounded  by  her  books  and  work 
in  her  piazza  chair,  as  he  might  have  done  had  she  been  still 
able  to  choose  freely,  and  stay  or  go  for  herself.  He  would 
bring  her  some  little  wildwood  or  hillside  token,  —  a  bunch  of 
ferns,  or  a  branch  of  berries,  or  a  handful  of  strange,  lovely 
marsh  or  mountain  blossoms,  —  would  ask,  in  a  courteousness 
that  never  reminded  of  courtesy,  of  her  gain  and  welfare,  and 
then,  after  some  mere  scrap  of  conversation,  would  pass  on. 
He  was  a  busy  man,  and  France  Everidge  was  an  idle  woman, 
so  the  idle  woman  thought ;  and  what  should  there  be  to  hold 
him  there,  or  make  any  long  companionship  between  them  ? 

Perhaps  for  the  very  reason  of  this  slight  and  fragmentary 
intercourse,  so  restrained  on  both  sides,  and  that  could  hardly 
be  called  intercourse,  the  three  weeks  since  they  had  been  so 
really  and  wonderfully  together  over  the  hill  roads  and  in  the 


THE  HAY-PAKLOR.  143 

sweet  woods  and  the  ravine  of  jewels,  seemed  now  between 
them  little  more  than  the  blank  of  a  night,  across  which  the  last 
thing  that  happened  was  that  most  vivid  to  each  separately, 
and  that  to  which  the  next  would  join  itself,  however  it  might 
be  ignored,  when,  or  if  ever,  such  association  between  them 
should  begin  again. 

Propinquity  ]  There  is  nothing  in  simple  adjacence  half  so 
perilous  as  a  certain  distance,  an  ellipse  of  orbit,  that  brings 
two  together  in  mere  comet  flashes  of  approach,  and  leaves 
them,  with  a  trail  of  light  across  their  heavens,  in  separate 
wonder  about  each  other's  nature,  and  by  what  calculation  they 
may  ever  cross  each  other's  strange  and  lovely  way  again. 

The  day  upon  that  Mountain  of  the  Precious  Stones ;  the 
dusk  in  which  they  encountered  a  peril  and  helped  each  other 
out  of  it ;  the  moments  in  which  the  strong  man  held  the  girl, 
disabled  by  a  little  hurt,  as  if  he  would  hold  her,  strong  and' 
kindly,  from  any,  every  hurt  that  could  be, — those  were  the 
last  hours  and  moments  in  which  they  had  really  met. 

Rael  unharnessed  his  horse ;  they  heard  him  below  in  the 
shed  there  ;  they  heard  the  wagon  thills  drop  ;  they  heard  him 
whistle  as  he  hung  up  the  tackle  that  was  kept  handy  there ; 
and  then  they  heard  the  old  colt,  with  scrambling  tramp,  whose 
exaggeration  sounded  like  the  moving  of  some  mastodon  in  the 
small  space  and  on  the  echoing  floor,  coming  up  the  deep  step 
into  the  barn  itself,  and  around  into  his  stall.  Rael  came  after, 
still  whistling,  with  the  halter.  Then  he  pulled  down  hay  for 
him  that  teemed  itself  into  the  hay-rack  from  the  crowded  loft 
above,  and  then  they  heard  him  cross  the  open  floor,  and  come 
to  the  granary  stairs. 

Miss  Tredgold,  when  not  off  on  a  set  expedition,  was  almost 
always  in  one  of  three  places,  —  in  her  white-covered  rocking- 
chair  by  the  south-front  window  of  her  room,  on  the  west 
piazza,  or  up  here  in  the  hay-mow.  Where  Miss  Everidge 
might  be,  in  these  days  of  her  keeping  greatly  to  herself,  as  in 
the  days  when  she  was  as  apt  to  be  down  by  the  brook,  or  over  in 
the  cedar  wood  upon  the  hill,  or  in  the  pine-hollow,  any  five 
minutes  as  not,  did  not  necessarily  enter  into  the  calculation. 
Rael  Heybrook  wanted  to  speak  with  Miss  Tredgold. 


144  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

"Are  you  there,  Miss  Ammahl"  he  asked,  as  his  tawny- 
brown  hair  and  clear,  handsome  forehead  and  eyes  came  up 
into  a  streak  of  sun-light  over  a  billow  of  hay.  And  Miss 
Amman  answered,  "  I  'm  here,"  from  over  another  billow  in  the 
far  corner,  lifting  up  cap  and  spectacles  to  meet  him. 

"  May  I  sit  down  here  and  have  a  talk  ? " 

"  Of  course  you  may." 

Over  behind,  in  France's  corner,  the  hay  rustled  with  a  quick 
motion  that  only  Miss  Ammah  could  see  ;  and  to  that  Miss 
Amman  replied  with  a  clutch  upon  France's  foot  that  came 
through  conveniently  beside  her.  So  France,  bidden  and  iip- 
holden,  stayed  still  and  listened.  Rael  was  not  noticing  the 
sounds  ;  if  he  had  been,  they  were  common  enough,  and  made 
part  of  the  pleasantness  in  the  dim,  sweet  old  chambers,  where 
the  shy  hens  stole  about  to  their  hidden  nests,  and  the  briudle 
cat  crept  after  barn-mice. 

"  I  shall  have  to  give  up  the  Gilley  bargain,"  Rael  said. 

Now,  as  the  reader  does  not  know  what  the  Gilley  bargain 
•was,  and  Miss  Tredgold  did,  and  even  France  had  heard  of  the 
plan  of  purchase,  and  as  Rael  is  not  likely,  after  the  absurdity 
of  some  people  in  stories  who  are  wholly  under  the  author's 
thumb,  to  tell  it  all  over  again  to  us  across  their  shoulders,  it  is 
as  well  to  say  here  that  the  Heybrooks  had  wanted  for  a  long 
time,  if  they  could  only  have  spared  the  money,  to  straighten 
the  west  line  of  their  farm  to  Little  River,  a  branch  of  the 
great  stream  along  whose  valley  the  railroad  ran ;  by  this 
means  also  to  open  a  straight  cut  across  what  was  now  the 
"  Gilley  home-piece,"  below  the  Gilley  wood-lot  that  had  been 
bought  in  years  ago  to  the  Heybrook  property,  toward  the 
railroad,  at  whose  nearest  wood-station  Rael's  logs  were  to  be 
delivered  next  winter.  This  would  cut  off  along  round  by  the 
highway  ;  it  would  enable  Rael  to  begin  cutting  advantageously 
down  there,  instead  of  at  the  hither  end  of  his  large  forest 
tract,  whence  the  old  cart-road  came  back  and  debouched  upon 
the  North  Sudley  turnpike.  It  would  make  a  fine  difference 
for  him  in  his  season's  work. 

Old  Gilley  had  a  son  who  wanted  to  go  out  to  Montana  with 
a  young  fellow  who  had  fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  go  out  with  : 


THE   HAY-PABLOR.  145 

if  Hod  Gilley  could  put  in  as  much  as  five  hundred  to  begin, 
and  go  on  quarter  share,  they  would  make  out  together.  Old 
Gilley  would  sell  his  little  remaining  tillage,  and  keep  his 
house-place  awhile  on  rent,  working  round  himself  at  odd  jobs 
on  other  people's  farms,  until  Hod  should  make  sure  out  there ; 
then  he  would  clear  all  out  and  go  too.  The  Gilleys  never  had 
made  out  much  in  Fellaiden  ;  their  laud  had  gone  bit  by  bit ;  but 
young  Horace  had  taken  the  new  start  that  a  young  sucker 
does  sometimes  take  from  an  old  stump,  and  people  said  he 
would  come  to  something. 

Rael  had  made  money  last  year  with  his  wood,  —  eight  hun 
dred,  certain.  Then  the  stock  had  turned  in  well ;  a  man  had 
been  about  buying  up  sheep  for  Texas,  and  Rael  had  got  good 
prices  for  his  two-year  Merinos  and  Saxonies.  He  could  pay 
five  hundred  this  fall,  he  thought,  and  make  it  stand  him  in. 

But  now,  he  said,  he  should  have  to  give  it  up. 

"  You  see,  Miss  Ammah,  1  'm  morally  sure  of  something  now, 
that  was  n't  so  likely  before,  and  that  Gilley  don't  know  a  word 
of.  There 's  talk  again  of  a  new  branch  up  to  Sudley ;  and  if 
they  do  that,  they  '11  strike  across  west  to  the  Rutland  and  Bur 
lington,  sure  ;  and  the  Sudley  branch  will  have  to  run  up  Little 
River ;  and  right  there,  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the  Gilley 
piece,  will  have  to  be  the  new  junction  and  a  big  depot.  So 
you  see  it  rather  knocks  my  little  plan." 

"  I  should  think  it  made  it  all  the  better,"  said  Miss  Ammah, 
simply,  all  on  one  side. 

"  Only  I  can't  afford  to  pay  Gilley  the  price  he  'd  ask  if  he 
knew  the  chance,"  said  Rael,  as  simply,  on  the  other  side. 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Ammah.  The  "oh!"  was  rather  aghast, 
and  had  a  quiver  of  doubt  in  it.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
Miss  Ammah  entered  into  the  interest  of  a  question  such  as, 
with  men,  involves  conscience  and  interest  almost  every  day ; 
that  is,  when  there  is  any  conscience  to  be  involved. 

"But  of  course  it  isn't  sure,"  she  said.  "  There  has  always 
been  talk  of  it,  every  now  and  then.  And  it  could  n't  come  to 
anything  for  a  year  or  two.  And  the  Gilleys  want  the  money 
now,  and  the  price  of  the  laud  now  is  five  hundred  dollars.  I 
don't  exactly  see  — " 

10 


146  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

"  I  thought  I  did  n't,"  said  Rael.  "  At  least,  I  thought  I 
thought  I  did  n't.  But  I  've  been  all  over  it.  The  road  has 
got  to  be,  sooner  or  later.  And  they  say  some  New  York  men 
have  got  hold  of  it,  and  they  mean  to  put  it  through.  The 
lake  and  mountain  travel  will  cut  right  across,  you  see.  It  '11 
just  open  up  this  piece  of  the  world  ;  but  the  first  thing  that 
will  come  in  will  be  the  railroad  price  for  Gilley's  land,  right 
straight  up  Little  River.  I  know,  by  survey,  they  can't  start 
from  anywhere  else  on  the  line,  or  go  any  other  way." 

"  People  out  in  the  speculating  world  are  apt  to  think  that 
they've  a  right  to  all  the  advantage  they  can  come  at  by 
any  superior  knowledge  or  discernment,"  said  Miss  Ammah. 
"  That 's  all  the  capital  half  of  them  begin  with.  And  if  they 
must  give  the  benefit  against  themselves,  where  would  the  cap 
ital  be  1" 

"  Where  it  was,  I  suppose,"  said  Rael.  "  In  the  common 
wealth." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Ammah,  "  that 's  the  commonwealth  of  Is 
rael  ! " 

By  this  time  France  had  got  up  in  a  straight  sitting  posture. 
Her  elbows  were  on  her  knees,  and  her  face  was  between  her 
hands.  Her  two  cheeks  glowed  like  fire,  and  her  eyes  were  like 
planets  in  a  sunrise. 

"  He  's  as  honest  as  the  Great  Pyramid  ! "  she  was  saying  to 
herself. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Rael,  "  nothing  in  this  world  is  certain.  I 
should  n't  hardly  dare  to  undertake  the  thing,  paying  the  five 
hundred  down,  and  a  promise  of  half  the  difference  ifa  a  fair 
valuation  of  the  land  one  year  or  two  years  hence,  say.  I 
might  n't  make  everything  out ;  and  land  don't  all  sell  at  a 
particular  price  the  very  minute  you  know  it  ought  to  be 
worth  it." 

He  certainly  was  speaking  Great-Pyramid-fashion  ;  he  did  not 
even  seem  to  recollect  that  there  was  no  business  fashion  of  the 
present  day  and  region  that  would  hold  these  words  of  his  as 
common  sense. 

"  Suppose  you  promised  it  in  your  own  mind,"  said  Miss  Am 
mah,  "  to  pay  when  the  money  really  did  come  1 " 


THE   HAY-PARLOR.  147 

"  I  would  n't  trust  my  own  mind  to  be  the  same,"  said  Rael. 
"  How  could  I  tell  1  It  would  look  different  to  me  after  I  'd 
had  it  for  my  own  a  year  or  two,  may  be.  And  who  knows 
where  he  or  I  would  be  in  that  time,  either,  or  what  new  no 
tion  of  profit  there  might  be  to  wait  two  or  five,  or  ten  years 
more  for  1  No ;  the  fair  way  is  to  pay  something  for  the  fair 
prospect  now,  and  I  can't  do  that.  It 's  an  upset  all  round, 
anyway  :  it  might  upset  Hod,  and  be  just  the  spoiling  of  him, 
to  put  too  much  in  his  head  about  it,  yet  awhile.  It  might 
cheat  him  out  of  better  than  money.  He  's  pretty  near  coming 
out  a  man,  as  it  is,  for  all  he  's  a  Gilley.  Five  hundred  dollars 
in  hand  would  be  the  making  of  him,  now ;  but  five  thousand 
in  the  bush,  and  the  bush  anywhere  from  two  to  five  years 
off,  —  well,  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  it,  in  his  place,  my 
self." 

"  I  think  you  could  stand  anything,"  came  from  France  Ever- 
idge's  corner,  in  that  strong  tone  of  hers  that  evened  itself  in 
stead  of  ejaculating.  . 

The  three  seconds'  pause  after  these  words  pointed  them 
each  way,  as  much  as  the  utterance.  Three  seconds  down  for 
words  to  drop  before  they  strike  water  sounds  a  pretty  deep 
well  of  something  that  receives  them. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  France.  I  did  n't  know  you  were  there. 
I  'm  glad  you  are.  I  'm  very  glad  you  were  able  to  get  here." 

"  Oh,  I  'rn  able,  I  hardly  cared  for  my  stick.  I  shall  be 
everywhere  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Everywhere  will  be  happy  to  have  you,"  said  Rael  Hey- 
brook,  as  gracefully  as  a  gentleman. 

"Mr.  Rael,"  said  France,  "if  you  measure  everything  by 
pyramid  inch,  which  is  a  thousandth  part  bigger  than  other 
people's  inches,  don't  you  see,  —  in  the  long  run,  —  " 

"  You  '11  come  out  ahead  ?  "     Rael  finished  with  a  laugh. 

"  One  way,"  said  the  girl.     "  But  in  the  way  of  the  world —  " 

"You'll  have  got  left  out  in  the  coldl"  he  ended  again. 
"  Well,  I  've  a  mind  to  try  that  and  see.  Miss  Ammah,  that 
land  is  cheap,  anyway,  at  five  hundred.  It  lays  as  pretty  to 
the  south  as  land  can,  and  those  meadows  cut  the  best  grass,  — 
and  the  maple  lot  up  next  our  woods,  —  why,  to  say  nothing 


148  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

of  a  depot  right  there,  with  a  good  stock  of  cows,  and  a 
sugar-works,  such  as  they  've  got  up  at  Still  Pond,  —  a  man 
need  n't  go  to  Montana,  or  anywhere  else,  to  turn  things 
round." 

"  I  dare  say  you  said  that  much  to  Hod  Gilley  in  the  first 
of  it." 

"  Yes.  I  could  n't  take  the  advantage  of  his  not  seeing  clear 
through  that  thing." 

"  All  right,"  said  Miss  Tredgold.  "  But  I  don't  suppose  you 
need  pay  him  for  the  fact  that  you  do  see,  and  that  you  've 
got  the  faculty  for  carrying  it  through.  I  might  as  well  pay  at 
the  worsted  store  for  this  thing  that  I  know  I  can  make  out  of 
their  fifteen-cent  yarn."  And  Miss  Amman  held  up  her  pretty 
shawl-work,  of  a  pattern  that  the  worsted  store  certainly  does 
not  know. 

"  Or  an  artist  at  the  color-shop  for  his  thousand-dollar  pic 
ture,"  said  France  Everidge ;  "  or  the  railroad  for  ten  years' 
travel  over  the  Jaud  they  cut  through." 

Rael  laughed.  "  Hod  is  bound  to  go  to  Montana,  and  have 
a  twelve-hundred-acre  field  of  wheat,"  he  said.  "  And  he  has  n't 
got  the  money  at  present  for  cows  or  sugar-works ;  but  the 
money  's  there,  for  a  little  cash,  or  smartness,  to  start  it  out 
with.  Only,  now,  if  the  railroad  comes,  and  the  town  road  is 
cut  through  from  Lower  Village  to  Sudley  Corner,  it 's  a  chance 
if  five  hundred  would  buy  two  acres  of  it —  some  parts —  in  a 
few  years.  And  that 's  getting  more  than  a  fair  calculation, 
unless  you  let  him  calculate  too." 

"  Let  him  calculate,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  diving  after  her 
ivory  crochet-needle  with  which  she  had  been  thoughtfully  stab 
bing  the  hay-mow,  and  which  had  nearly  slipped  away  from  her 
down  an  unsuspected  crevasse,  "  let  him  know  the  whole 
chance,  —  and  the  chanciness,  —  and  then  send  him  to  me. 
I  've  got  an  idle  thousand  dollars  just  now ;  and  I  've  always 
coveted  a  piece  of  glory-property  up  here  in  the  hills.  Only  I 
have  n't  felt  a  right  to  invest,  just  for  the  delight  of  my  eyes, 
in  what  mightn't  do  much  good  after  me.  I  '11  make  a  bargain 
with  him  if  you  say  so,  and  then  I  '11  make  a  bargain  with 
you.  You  shall  hire  the  land,  and  take  your  way  through  it, 


THE   HAY-PARLOR.  149 

and  spend  your  five  hundred  on  your  cows  and  your  sugar- 
works,  on  a  ten  years'  lease,  for  five  per  cent  interest.  And 
I  '11  come  up  here  every  year  and  look  on.  And  there  sha'  n't 
be  a  village  there  at  Little  River  Point,  either.  I  don't  want 
villages  on  my  land  ;  I  want  the  river  and  the  hills  and  the 
meadows  and  the  maple-groves  ;  a  piece  of  creation,  you  see,  — 
let  alone  as  much  as  it  can  be.  They  can  spread  out  their 
junction  on  the  other  side  if  they  want  to;  and  they  may 
have  their  depot  in  the  corner  under  the  red  rocks,  if  they 
must ;  it  won't  show  from  the  house.  And  that  house  of 
Gilley's,  —  why,  it  could  just  be  fixed  up,  —  Rael,  it  would  be 
fine  f" 

"Who  for?"  asked  Rael,  with  his  pleasant  laugh  again. 
"Miss  Ammah,  I  mustn't  take  the  advantage  of  you.  I 
must  n't  let  you  dream  away  your  thousand  dollars  all  in  one 
minute." 

"For  me,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  who  always  answered  cate 
gorically.  "  Or  for  you.  And  as  to  my  thousand  dollars,  ain't 
I  going  to  make  it  other  five  some  time?" 

"  Not  if  you  keep  the  meadows  to  look  at  or  to  hire  out  for 
five  per  cent."  . 

"  There 's  more  than  one  way  of  burying  in  the  ground,"  said 
Miss  Amrnah. 

Then  Rael  stood  up  on  the  top  stair  where  he  had  been 
sitting. 

"  Miss  Ammah,"  he  said,  with  his  tall  head  a  little  bent,  so 
that  the  lines  of  sunshine  playeS  across  the  brown  lines  of  it, 
and  holding  his  hat  between  his  hands  where  he  looked  down, 
"  this  is  n't  the  least  how  I  thought  the  talk  I  wanted  was 
going  to  end.  I  sha'  n't  thank  you  now,  for  thanking  you  would 
seem  to  take  it,  and  take  is  n't  so  easy  on  the  minute  as  give. 
I'd  rather  you'd  think  it  over,  and  if  you  never  say  a  word 
more  about  it,  I  sha' n't  feel  it  strange.  Something  else  may 
come  to  your  mind  that  does  n't  now.  I  would  n't  want  any 
great  favor  by  a  surprise.  All  the  same,  I  do  thank  you  for 
ever  thinking  of  such  a  thing  for  a  minute."  And  so,  with  one 
sidewise  step  downward,  he  turned  on  the  stairs,  put  his  hat  on 
as  he  turned,  and  went  down. 


150  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

"  I  '11  take  three  days,"  said  Miss  Ammah  to  France,  "  to  let 
him  get  used  to  it  in.  My  thinking  is  done.  I  'm  not  such  a 
sudden  sort  of  a  woman  as  he  supposes." 

France  sat  silent.  Her  thinking  was  in  the  very  middle. 
She  was  not  of  a  sudden  sort  either.  She  had  but  half  come  to 
any  understanding  of  herself. 


THE  DAM  PASTURE.  151 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE   DAM   PASTURE. 

IT  was  just  as  Dr.  Fargood  had  promised.  The  thorough  rest 
which  France  had  taken  had  let  her  knee  get  strong  again, 
almost  without  her  knowing  it. 

"  I  believe  I  could  have  walked  anywhere  a  week  ago,"  she 
said  to  Miss  Ammah  the  morning  after  she  had  made  that  first 
journey  with  a  stick,  over  into  the  hay  barn,  and  discovered 
that  the  stick  was  of  no  consequence  whatever.  "  I  am  going 
to  begin  to  scour  the  woods  again." 

"  He  told  you  you  might  have  your  liberty  after  three  weeks," 
said  Miss  Ammah. 

"  And  the  three  weeks  are  up  on  Thursday.  On  Friday  I 
will  go  with  Sarell  over  the  dam." 

That  sounded  like  an  extreme  proposition  ;  but  over  the  dam 
was  simply  across  the  river  by  the  High  Mills  to  some  great 
pastures  that  stretched  up  the  oak  ridges  lying  along  the  foot 
of  Th  unable. 

The  river  was  everywhere  ;  it  wound  east  and  south  and 
west  of  the  farm,  and  joined  the  great  straight  north  and  south 
stream  at  Creddle's  Mills,  seven  miles  below.  The  High  Mills 
were  paper  manufactories ;  they  made  there  a  certain  kind  of 
coarse  brown  pasteboard,  for  which  they  used  oat-straw.  France 
had  gone  there  one  day  to  see  the  works.  What  had  charmed 
her  far  more  than  the  works,  however,  had  been  the  wild  bed 
of  the  stream  below  the  dam,  filled  with  great  boulders,  some  of 
them  tall  jagged  needles,  some  huge  rounds  with  slopes  that  could 
be  climbed ;  between  were  flats  and  gentle  inclines  of  smooth- 
worn  slabs,  with  chains  and  broken  heaps  of  stepping-stones  lying 
in  the  channels  and  pools  in  which  the  shallow  water  spread 
itself  and  stole  about,  —  wandering  strange  aud  dispossessed 


152  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

where  it  had  once  wildly  rushed  and  boiled, —  from  the  back-water 
of  the  mill-tail,  and  the  slow  drip  between  the  craggy  foundations 
of  the  dam.  That  structure  itself  stretched  across  some  eighty  or 
ninety  feet  from  the  flume-head  to  the  opposite  bank,  and  rose 
twenty-five  feet  high  from  the  rocky  bed  below.  Above  lay  the 
broad,  still  water,  deep  from  edge  to  edge  of  its  thicket-fringed 
banks. 

Now,  in  the  wide,  pleasant  pastures  beyond,  the  blueberries 
wei'e  in  perfection  ;  all  the  way  over  the  ridges  and  up  Thumble 
they  grew  in  wild  patches,  open  to  the  high  sun,  and  tangled 
among  them  here  and  there  were  the  bush-blackberry  vines,  on 
which  the  long,  beautiful,  sweet  cones  of  fruit  were  turning  to 
their  glossy  ripeness.  Sarell  had  "  been  going  "  for  a  week  past 
for  a  regular  long  day's  picking,  for  plentiful  fresh  supplies  and 
for  a  big  "preserving." 

"You  can  go  as  well  as  not,"  said  Sarell,  sliding  the  last 
plateful  of  hot  biscuits  in  among  a  sociable  group  of  other 
breakfast  dishes.  The  perfect  setting  of  a  country  table  is  to 
make  it  look  as  if  nothing  else  could  be  crowded  in  ;  therefore 
the  first  half  dozen  things  are  begun  with  in  a  bunch  like  the 
Pleiades.  "Lyme'll  drive  us  down  to  the  bars  with  the  buck- 
board  ;  an'  he  or  some  of  'em  can  come  along  an'  take  us  up 
again  'fore  sundown.  You  won't  have  to  walk  a  mite  more'n 
you  're  a  min'  to.  'T  ain't  nothin'  goin'  across  the  river,  either 
way." 

"  Too,  it  '11  be  bakin'  mornin',  Friday,"  said  Mrs.  Hey  brook, 
adding  the  brimming  pitcher  of  yellow  cream  to  the  spreading 
constellation,  "  an'  you  c'n  have  nice  fresh  victuals  for  your 
dinner.  We  '11  be  all  through,  Sarell  an'  I,  'fore  you  '11  want 
to  go,  an'  then  you  '11  have  a  couple  of  hours  before  the  heat  o' 
the  day  sets  in.  When  you  're  there  you  won't  care.  There 's 
the  nicest  shady  places  you  ever  see,  —  oak  clumps,  an'  here  'n 
there  great  solid  pines,  two  or  three  together,  a  hundred  years 
old.  It's  alwers  cool  under  the  pines." 

So,  at  ten  on  the  Friday  morning,  with  tin  pails,  full  now  of 
turnovers,  doughnuts,  crackles,  as  Mother  Heybrook  called  cer 
tain  crisp  bread-wafers  of  hers  that  were  done  on  the  clean  brick 
floor  of  the  oven  every  baking-day,  and  cheese,  both  ripe  and  in 


THE   DAM   PASTURE.  153 

little  snowy  balls  of  fresh  sweet  curd  that  France  delighted  in  ; 
with  a  peck-basket  for  the  berries,  and  a  small  strapped  shopping - 
basket  of  France's  that  held  a  book,  a  sketching  block  and  pen 
cils,  and  some  of  her  wool-work,  the  two  young  women  set  off 
together  on  the  buck-board,  with  Lyman  for  driver,  to  spend  a 
whole  summer's  day  together,  with  only  the  birds  and  the  sun 
shine  and  the  butterflies,  the  wind  and  the  running  water,  the 
rocks,  the  sweet  waving  ferns  and  grasses,  and  the  sturdy, 
generous  fruit-bushes  for  other  company. 

"  Safe  1 "  repeated  Mother  Heybrook  to  Miss  Amman's  ques 
tion.  "  It's  just  as  safe  as  heaven.  There 's  nobody  there  but 
the  Lord  and  his  own  creature.  It 's  full  water  at  the  mills, 
an'  it's  oat-harvest  with  the  farm  folks,  an'  the  berry-children, 
even,  don't  get  over  that  way  much.  They  '11  have  it  all  to 
themselves,  an'  I  guess  it 's  a  clear  treat  to  both  of  'em.  Those 
two  never '11  find  much  better  days  than  they're  a  seein'  now," 
the  good  soul  added  with  innocent  indiscrimination,  as  they 
drove  from  the  door,  where  the  elder  women  stood  to  see  them 
off.  "  They  don't  know  it  though.  They  're  lookin'  forrud,  I 
s'pose,  like  all  the  young  fools  before  'em.  Sarell  's  a  real  likely 
girl  herself,  Miss  Ammah,  an'  she  ought  to  look  out  an'  do  well. 
But  that  Hollis !  too,  his  looks  may  misreppersent  him,  but  I 
don't  believe  he  's  smart,  —  not  her  kind  ;  but  there  !  ice  can't 
reggerlate  it.  An'  ain't  it  good  that  France  is  whole-footed 
again  1 " 

There  was  something  in  Mother  Heybrook's  words  that  con 
veyed  an  obscure  kind  of  sympathetic  comfort  to  Miss  Tredgold. 
Her  responsibilities,  also,  were  lifted  off  her  shoulders  for  one 
day  at  any  rate.  For  to-day,  in  the  solitary  pastures,  it  was 
"  as  safe  as  heaven  "  for  France  Everidge.  She  wondered  what 
the  minister  would  say  if  he  walked  over  this  afternoon  and 
found  her  gone  1 

"  It 's  worth  sitting  still  three  weeks  to  find  out  how  lovely  it 
is  to  rush  round  again !"  said  France,  as  she  sprang  from  the  buck- 
board,  taking  care,  however,  to  come  down  on  the  sure  foot. 

Before  them  was  a  low  bar-place,  letting  in  from  the  roadside 
to  a  clumpy  bush-growth,  through  which  a  narrow  path  was 
beaten.  Down  a  bank,  this  path  ran  to  the  river  margin,  just 


154  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

above  the  high  dam.  They  heard  Lyman  rattle  off  down  the 
remainder  of  the  hill  with  the  buck-board  as  they  entered  a 
sweet-scented  pine  shade  along  the  crest  of  the  bank,  through 
which  the  footway  branched  to  the  right  and  ran  along  to  the 
mill  buildings  some  eighth  of  a  mile  further  down,  shut  in  a 
deep  hollow,  where  the  river-bed  turned  again.  Lyman  would 
cross  the  river  here,  by  the  mill  bridge.  The  road  followed  along 
on  the  further  side  to  the  village,  where  he  had  an  errand. 

Sarell,  the  peck-basket  on  her  arm  in  which  were  stowed 
the  tin  dinner-pails  that  they  were  to  unpack  and  then  use  for 
their  picking,  led  the  way  out  of  the  pine  belt,  down  through 
a  fringe  of  elder  and  dogwood.  Presently  the  clear  water 
gleamed  at  their  feet,  and  across  it,  over  the  head-gate  of  the 
raceway,  and  from  that  straight  on  to  the  opposite,  seemingly 
far-off  shore,  stretched  the  solid  line  of  timber  that  topped  the 
dam,  about  a  foot  and  a  half  wide,  —  a  little  more,  perhaps,  — 
dry  and  smooth.  The  water  was  all  running  through  the  sluice 
of  the  flume,  for  the  gates  were  up  and  the  mills  busy.  On  the 
left,  the  sloping  planks  ran  down  into  the  mill-pond,  bare  for  a 
couple  of  feet,  at  most  to  the  water  level.  This,  smooth  and 
sunshiny,  lay  backward  spread  for  a  rod  or  two,  against  where 
a  slight  natural  fall  over  a  low  face  of  ledge  gave  the  first  im 
petus  to  the  current  which  had  once  hurled  itself  down  here  in 
a  real  cataract.  On  the  right  was  the  cataract-skeleton,  the 
sheer  descent,  and  those  bare,  upward-pointing  rocks. 

Sarell  made  straight  for  the  dam. 

France,  with  her  basket  and  her  waterproof,  followed  her  un- 
fil  she  saw  her  set  foot  on  the  timber,  independently  broad,  but 
relatively  so  narrow,  that  lay  across  between  the  still  river  and 
the  bare,  frightful  rocks  below. 

"  Sarell !  "  she  cried,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  1" 

"  Go  over,  to  be  sure.     Did  n't  we  come  to  1 " 

"  Over  there  1     So  T' 

"  It 's  the  easiest  way.  I  always  do.  But  you  can  climb 
across,  down  there,  if  you  like,"  and  Sarell  pointed  down,  rather 
contemptuously,  into  the  gorge.  "  There  's  a  plank-way  over 
the  flume,  a  few  steps  that  way,  and  a  pitchy  little  path  down 
the  bank,  —  if  you  don't  mind  your  knee." 


THE   DAM   PASTURE.  155 

"  Oh,  come  !  "  entreated  France.  "  It  'a  so  much  prettier 
that  way." 

"  That 's  exactly  what  you  don'  know,"  said  Sarell.  "  You 
never  stood  on  the  middle,  there,  with  the  whole  river  spreadin' 
up  one  side,  like  a  great  sky  lookin'-glass,  an'  the  rocks  tumbled 
together  underneath  the  other,  clear  down  through  the  gully  to 
the  Mill  Holler  an'  the  Thumble  Bend." 

"  Of  course  it 's  beautiful,  but  I  never  was  up  in  the  air  with 
an  eagle,  either,"  said  France.  "Don't  be^n  eagle  or  a  king 
fisher,  Sarell !  Come  down  with  me !  Be  tame,  please  ! " 

Sarell  walked  on  a  little  way,  just  not  to  be  too  tame,  and  to 
show  France  her  free  poise  on  her  high  standing-place,  then  she 
turned  and  indifferently  strolled  back  again. 

"  Jest  as  you  say,"  she  said  ;  and  they  crossed  the  flume  and 
•went  down  the  side  path,  where  the  hardback  and  the  plumy 
white  meadow-queen  grew,  among  elders  rich  with  their  wine- 
storing  berries,  and  glossy  dogwood,  tempting  and  treacherous 
to  the  touch. 

Down  among  the  rocks  it  was  lovely,  if  ignominiously  safe. 
"  Don't  hurry  !  "  said  France.  "  It 's  too  —  wonderful  —  to  go 
away  from."  She  instated  herself  upon  a  beautiful  sculptured 
throne,  where  the  ancient .  waters  had  scooped  out  the  hollow 
seat,  and  smoothed  the  pleasant  incline  of  the  back,  and  even 
left  a  footstool  just  where  a  footstool  should  be.  High  and  dry 
above  any  water  level  that  had  been  for  years,  its  top  and  sides 
were  dimpled  and  furrowed  and  grooved  in  a  tracery  of  bold 
natural  carving,  and  the  mosses  had  enamelled  and  filagreed 
them  with  gray  and  green  ;  and  overhead  a  great  jutting  frag 
ment,  wedged  fast  between  yet  higher  heaps,  held  its  horizontal 
canopy  above  her,  shading  her  from  the  down-pouring  sunlight. 

At  her  feet,  below  the  rocky  footstool,  ran  a  shallow  ripple  of 
translucent  water,  which  she  had  jxist  stepped  across.  Golden- 
rods,  springing  in  the  clefts  at  either  hand,  were  just  bursting 
their  feathery  tips  into  glory,  and  catnip  blossoms,  around 
which  wild  bees  were  whirling,  held  up  small,  sweet  heads  from 
a  little  islet  patch  of  weedy  green  close  by.  The  high  banks 
and  their  heavy  thickets  shut  in  all  like  walls,  which  the  tow- 
ei'ing  structure  of  the  dam,  above,  and  the  precipitous  front  of 


156  ODD,   OE   EVEN? 

Thumble  Bend,  —  an  outstretching  spur  of  the  mountain  mass 
itself,  — beyond  the  mills,  joined  with  cross  ramparts  that  left 
no  seeming  outlet  anywhere,  except  upward,  where  the  crows 
flew  over,  and  drifts  of  scattered  white  clouds  slowly  sailed  east 
ward  in  the  blue  rift. 

A  little  way  down  from  where  she  sat,  the  mill-wheels  reared 
and  smote  with  their  dripping  blades,  and  the  foamy  water 
swept  back  from  their  chastisement  to  quiet  itself  111  lessening 
surges  till  it  turned  away  among  the  stones  in  another  path, 
and  found  its  onward  way  again,  like  a  life  from  out  some  shat 
tering  experience,  into  placid  meadow  reaches  for  a  while,  till  it 
came  to  other  mill-wheels,  and  the  grasp  and  whirl  and  bewil 
derment  of  a  new  catastrophe  laid  hold  of  it  again. 

Sarell  put  down  her  basket  and  her  pails,  found  a  resting- 
place,  and  waited.  She  had  seen  enough  of  France,  already, 
to  know  that  when  she  sat  down  that  way,  and  "  went  into 
things,"  herself,  or  whoever  the  other  person  might  be,  would 
have  to  wait. 

The  things  were  entering  into  France;  the  depth  of  the 
earth-chasm,  the  tossed,  tumultuous  rocks,  the  withdrawn 
height  and  peace  of  the  blue  day,  the  quiet  humbleness  of  the 
growing  things  that  made  their  home  here,  the  obedient,  suf 
fering,  escaping  waters,  the  cool  sweetness  and  apartness  of 
this  strange  place  whence  the  natural  flow  and  current  had 
been  diverted,  —  said  things  to  her  as  in  syllables  of  some  half- 
comprehended  tongue,  which  she  knew  only  enough  to  discern 
a  deep,  significant  sound  in,  and  to  lay  up  as  a  kind  of  haunting 
rhythm,  in  involuntary  memory,  to  come  back  to  her  when  she 
should  have  power  to  translate  it  fully. 

At  last  Sarell  said,  with  an  elaborate  meekness,  "  Ther  's 
berries  up  in  the  lot,  you  know,  I  s'pose ;  an'  I  've  a  mistrustin' 
recollection  't  we  come  to  pick  'em." 

To  which  France  answered,  with  a  dreamy  sort  of  penitence, 
"  You  poor  thing  !  "  and  dreamily  descended  from  her  throne, 
and  turned  toward  the  southern  bank. 

Climbing  that,  they  came  into  the  sunny  pasture.  A  great 
flood  of  sweet  air  met  them,  wholly  other  than  the  air  below, 
full  of  ferny  balm  and  -minty  redolence,  and  breaths  of  pines 


THE   DAM   PASTUKE."  157 

that  were  steeped  in  warmth  and  moved  softly  in  the  thousand- 
perfumed  wind. 

And  such  a  hush !  Such  a  summer  brooding  of  the  great 
sky  (was  it  anything  of  that  same  sky  that  held  itself  so  far 
away  from  the  beautiful,  deep,  broken  gorge  beneath  1 )  over 
the  lovely  wilderness  that  was  lifting  up  its  thank-offering  of 
prodigal  fruitage  far  and  wide. 

France  sat  down  again  within  a  little  circle  of  low  bushes,  on 
the  crisp,  tawny  grass.  All  around  her  tiny  branches  bent, 
blue  with  crowding  berries,  doing  all  they  could  in  the  teeming, 
hungry  earth.  A  wild  bird  startled  from  a  nest  among  some 
tall,  sweet  ferns,  and,  peering  in,  France  saw  four  little  eggs, 
the  promise  of  some  second  brood.  An  emperor-butterfly  set 
tled  on  a  stem  and  floated  off  again,  with  staggering  wings  just 
unfolded  from  their  chrysalis ;  and  again  the  crows  flew  over, 
chanting  their  rough  note,  but  here  they  only  made  a  mighty 
peace  more  peaceful,  wafting  their  long,  slow  way  across  a  lim 
itless  sweet  heaven. 

White  birches  gathered  in  groups,  —  sociable  little  gossipy 
trees  that  they  are,  —  whispered  to  each  other  continually  with 
their  silvery,  light-hung  leaves  ;  underneath,  the  prettiest  little 
miniature  things  just  like  them,  each  perfect  in  branching 
and  proportion,  were  springing  up  to  be  the  birches  of  a  gay 
society  by  and  by.  The  ground  was  fresh  and  glistening  with 
them,  and  other  lovely  new  beginnings  of  forest  life. 

Here  and  there  a  great  oak  stood  solitary,  like  a  strong, 
thoughtful  soul  reaching  up  to  the  clearest  airs  of  heaven  and 
drinking  deep  from  the  purest  fountains  of  the  earth ;  holding 
fast  with  the  under-nature  to  that  in  which  it  was  set  to  grow, 
and  spreading  forth  live,  free  perceptions  to  touch  and  assimi 
late  the  sunlight  and  all  its  invisible  forces. 

Pine  copses  skirted  and  islanded  the  pasture.  Mixed  with 
their  spicy,  dense  verdure  was  the  shining  luxuriance  of  laurel, 
that  six  weeks  ago  had  been  robed  in  pink,  covered  from  crown 
to  root  with  its  great  clusters  of  wax-like,  rosy  cups.  Among 
the  moss  and  pine  needles,  tiniest  running  vines,  matted  into 
firm  tapestry,  carpeted  with  wonderful  evenness  the  shaded 
floors  of  many  a  sweet  wood-parlor. 


158  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

Sarell  was  urging  her  way  already  through  the  thickly  grow 
ing  fruit-jungles;  the  drop  of  the  berries  had  long  ceased  to 
sound  on  the  tin  bottom  of  her  broad  pail.  The  doughnuts 
and  turnovers  were  stowed  safely  in  the  cool  of  one  of  those 
little  pine-tree  bowers,  where  they  would  eat  their  luncheon  by 
and  by. 

France  began,  of  conscience,  to  be  industrious.  She  grew 
fascinated  with  her  gathering ;  the  large,  bloomy-blue  clusters 
fell  from  their  stems  at  her  first  touch,  raining  down  into  her 
pail,  until  she  too  had  passed  beyond  the  rattling  stage  of  mere 
commencement  into  the  full,  silent,  steady  accomplishment  of 
undoubted  work.  The  finger-tips,  used  to  dexterous  fine  hand 
lings,  moved  nimbly  at  their  new  task,  perhaps  scattering  less 
than  the  more  forceful  grasp  of  Sarell's ;  and  the  farrn-maiden, 
who  was  a  famous  picker,  was  surprised  when  the  city  damsel 
came  round  at  the  same  moment  with  herself  to  empty  the 
"quart  kettle  "  into  the  peck  basket. 

"It  won't  take  us  time  enough,"  she  said.  "We  might  as 
good  's  calc'lated  on  a  ha'af  bush'l." 

"  I  've  my  straw  basket,"  said  France.  "  And  here  are  the 
pails  themselves.  And  we  could  even  make  a  pile  of  berries  on 
the  moss,  and  let  Lyman  come  back  for  it." 

"  Should  n't  be  a  mite  astonished  if  we  did.  An'  then  we 
sh'll  hev'  to  leave  all  Oak  Ridge  and  Thumble.  It 's  a  turrible 
country  for  berries,  in  the  years  of  'em.  Why,  over  there  in 
the  chestnut  runs,  right  between  the  two  villages,  is  enough  to 
more  'n  satisfy  the  folks ;  so 's 't  they  hardly  ever  take  the 
trouble  to  come  here,  'less  it 's  for  a  reggl'r  picnic  party  once  in 
a  while.  But  I  tell  you  these  berries  is  jest  a  achin"1  t'  be 
picked.  I  can't  more  'n  look  at  'em  'fore  they  're  in  the  kittle." 

"  I  wonder  what  so  many  are  made  for  ! "  exclaimed  France. 

"  Lor  !  it 's  no  use  wond'rin'  about  that,"  said  Sarell.  "  Ef 
you  're  goin'  t'  begin,  you  '11  hafter  keep  on.  'Ts  a  wonder  t' 
me  what  ha'af  the  folks  was  made  for,  let  alone  berries." 

Sarell  spoke  with  her  mouth  full.  France  was  picking,  deli 
cately  and  dutifully,  without  so  much  as  remembering  that 
there  was  plenty  of  fruit  for  eating  also.  But  it  is  one  of  the 
minute  differences  that  high  human  civilization  has  made,  that 


THE   DAM  PASTURE.  159 

its  advance  breeding  results  in  a  creature  who  has  forgotten  the 
instinct  of  browsing,  and  adheres  only  to  the  periodical  cere 
mony  of  eating,  to  which  its  necessity  has  become  reduced. 

When  their  dinner  time  came,  however,  France  was  delight 
fully  hungry.  The  peck  basket  was  almost  full;  the  sun  was 
high,  and  the  very  birds  were  nooning  in  the  thickets.  She 
and  Sarell  withdrew  into  their  pine  parlor.  Of  all  their  great 
outdoor  palace,  they  chose  one  small,  secluded  chamber  led  to 
by  a  long  green  gallery  that  wound  slightly  as  it  threaded 
inward  from  the  open  hillside  to  this  cool  depth.  A  thousand 
beautiful  growing  embroideries  and  hangings  adorned  and 
clothed  its  still  and  fresh  interior.  One  broad  old  stump, 
embossed  with  lichens  and  moss-evened  to  a  table-level,  served 
for  their  setting  forth  of  food,  and  the  vine-knit  slope  about  it, 
clean  from  the  least  rubbish  or  decay,  gave  them  seats.  The 
close  weaving  of  the  branches,  with  the  finer  crossings  and 
interlacings  of  millions  of  spiny  leaves,  shut  out  the  heat,  and 
evidently  kept  the  rains  from  dripping  in  so  as  to  soak  where 
they  could  not  easily  have  evaporated.  Therefore  it  was  dry 
and  sweet,  and  only  the  things  that  grow  in  such  dry  shadow 
had  got  habilitated  there,  but  these  in  their  daintiest  perfec 
tion. 

"I  did  n't  know  there  could  be  such  a  place, —  happening  to 
be,  of  itself,"  said  France. 

"  There  's  lots  more  things  that  happen  than  you  could  bring 
to  pass  if  you  tried,"  said  sententious  Sarell. 

After  which,  their  thoughts  perhaps  going  apart  on  different 
trails,  they  addressed  themselves  to  their  repast. 

However  blessedly  hungry,  fifteen  minutes  of  actual  eating 
suffice  a  properly  proportioned  human  being ;  therefore,  long 
before  their  fair  noon-spell  was  finished,  they  had  ended  dinner, 
and  France  had  neatly  secured  the  remnants  in  Mrs.  Heybrook's 
homespun  napkin. 

Sarell  picked  a  fern-branch  and  sat  in  a  meditative  fashion, 
her  feet  drawn  up  a  little  under  her,  and  her  knees  elevated, 
upon  which  she  rested  her  wrists,  while  she  slowly  and  carefully 
drew  the  separate  green  fronds  through  her  fingers;  turning 
and  scrutinizing  them  in  a  very  examining  way,  yet  with  an 


160  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

unmistakable  air  of  the  examination  being  only  illustrative ; 
the  real  analysis  and  deliberation  going  on  within  her. 

"  I  've  a  good  min'  to  tell  you,"  she  began,  with  slower  speech 
than  usual,  and  in  that  tone  which  seems  to  sound  from  below 
the  ready  surface,  and  then  she  stopped.  If  she  had  been  in 
France's  place,  she  would  have  known  that  she  was  expected  to 
say  "Well1?"  and  that  then  France  would  have  gone  on. 
France  did  not  say  "  Well  1 "  she  only  turned  her  head  civilly 
toward  her  companion,  and  left  her  to  her  free  will.  So  Sarell 
had  to  begin  again. 

"  They  happen  faster  than  you  ivant  to  bring  'em  to  pass,  if 
they  once  get  a  goin'." 

After  a  moment's  marvel,  France  was  able  to  join  these  to 
the  anteprandial  words,  and  to  perceive  that  Sarell  reverted 
to  "things."  Also  that  she  could  not  mean  natural  growths 
or  conformations,  such  as  their  present  surroundings,  which 
they  had  commented  upon. 

"  What  do  ? "  she  asked,  relieving  very  evident  expectation 
this  time ;  and  Sarell,  getting  her  catechizing  cue,  which  was  to 
her  as  the  pitch-pipe  note,  or  the  choir  leader's  do-sol-fa  to  the 
village  singers,  started  off. 

"Well,  f  one  thing, —  Elviry  Scovill 's  goin'  t'  leave  the 
deac'n's.  Her  sister  's  goin'  t'  git  merried  this  fall,  an'  she  's 
got  t'  go  home  'n  see  t'  the  ol'  folks.  Deac'n  Amb,  he  's  in  a 
tiew."  Sarell  paused  here  again  ;  she  told  her  story  like  old 
Saltpetre  getting  up  a  hill.  There  was  a  water-bar  after  every 
little  pull. 

"  Y'  see  't  he  's  bed  a  kind  of  a  poor  spell ;  'n  he  don'  know 
what  t'  make  of  it;  f'r  he  hed  n't  allowed  f'r  anything  like 
that  t'll  he  was  a  good  ninety-eight  'n  a  half ;  f'r  his  father,  he 
was  six  mont's  a  failin',  an'  he  died  when  he  was  ninety-nine 
an'  six  days,  an'  never  'd  hed  a  day's  pulldown  all  his  life  afore. 
So  it  all  cuts  right  into  the  deac'n's  plans,  y'  see ;  an'  Mother 
Pemble  —  well,  her  eyes  is  a  shiiiin' ! " 

"  I  don't  think  I  know  much  about  the  family,"  said  France 
politely.  "  It  is  '  Uncle  Arab,'  is  n't  it  1 " 

"  I  sh'd  say 't  was.  An'  a  beautiful  kind  'f  'u  uncle  he  's  ben 
t'  the  boys !  I  'd  jest  like  to  uncle  him ;  an*  I  will,  too,  ef 
things  don't  happen  too  fast." 


THE   DAM   PASTURE.  161 

France  began  to  feel  a  fresher  interest,  as  Sarell's  words 
flowed  more  animatedly,  and  her  subject  enlarged. 

"An*  Hollis  Bassett,  he  told  me  las'  Sunday,  that  the  oP 
man  was  actilly  goin'  t'  give  him  shares,  at  last ;  beginnin'  in 
the  winter,  of  course,  t'  count  work.  Now  Hollis,  he  's  a  kind 
'f  a  goose, — 'bout  some  things, —  an'  he  can 't  more  'n  ha'af 
make  up  his  mind, —  or  make  up  his  ha'af  of  a  mind,  whichever 
't  is,"  said  Sarell,  laughing  awkwardly.  "  He  's  got  possessed 
about  keepin'  store, —  did  y'  ever  hear  of  sech  a  thing 's  a  forty- 
nine-cent  store,  France  1 " 

"  No,  I  certainly  never  did,"  said  France,  keeping  eyes  and 
lips  grave,  and  finding  herself  half  amused,  half  impatient, 
with  Sarell's  wandering  confidences.  But  a  good  deal  could  be 
borne  with,  or  passively  permitted,  in  the  prevailing  delicious- 
ness  of  the  day  and  place. 

"  Well,  he  's  all  in  a  coniption  t'  be  a  mercantyle  man.  An' 
he  thinks  he  c'n  begin  that  way.  I  tell  him, —  he  kinder  comes 
t'mef'r— " 

Sarell  was  about  to  say  "  encouragement."  But  the  word 
stopped  her,  and  she  did  not  at  the  instant  think  of  another. 

"  For  that  other  half  of  his  mind  ? "  asked  France  demurely. 

"  Well,  p'raps  so.  Two  heads  is  better  'n  one,  y'  know.  He 
kinder  talks  things  over,  an'  I  tell  him  't  ain't  neither  a  trade 
nor  a  callin'.  'T  ain't  a  man's  full  business,  now,  is  it,  Miss 
France  ] "  The  word  of  respect  might  be  accidental  or  propitia- 
tive.  Sarell  evidently  wanted  some  light  or  some  upholding. 
She  looked  anxiously  at  Miss  Everidge,  and  a  sudden  movement 
of  her  fingers  stripped  all  the  pretty  fronds  from  the  fern-stem, 
and  left  it  a  very  bare  fact  in  her  hand.  She  began  to  trace 
the  pattern  of  her  print  gown  with  it,  as  the  dress  lay  smoothed 
across  her  knee. 

"  I  am  puzzled  sometimes,  Sarell,  about  bigger  things  than 
that,  to  know  whether  they  are  trades  or  callings,  or  any  busi 
ness  at  all  for  a  man,  in  this  world,"  France  answered.  And 
that,  as  yet,  did  not  help  Sarell  at  all. 

"Standin'  behind  a  counter,  an'  passin'  things  acrost,  an' 
takin'  in  change,  ain't  everything.  What 's  he  made  or  satisfied 
or  turned  over  ?  That 's  what  I  'd  like  t'  know,  'bout  'n  ocker- 

11 


162  ODD,    OR    EVEN  ? 

pation,"  said  Sarell.  "  'T  ain't  clear  respectable,  I  don't  think, 
'less  he  doos  one  or  t'  other." 

"  I  think  you  're  perfectly  right,"  returned  France.  "  But 
there  are  cities  full  of  people  who  don't  do  any  better ;  who 
only  stand  between, —  no,  they  don't  stand  between  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  with  an  instantly  larger  perception  of  the  word ; 
and  Sarell  went  on. 

"  Now,  'f  a  man  plants  a  field  o'  beans,  an'  weeds  'em,  an' 
hoes  'em,  an'  poles  'em  up,  he  's  a  doin'  somethin';  an'  when  he 
gethers  'em,  then  ther  's  them  more  beans  in  the  world.  But 
jest  t'  buy  a  few  ready-made  notions,  an'  take  a  cent  off  a  price 
they  ain't  ha'af  wuth,  an'  then  rig  up  a  shop  an'  stan'  an'  ped 
dle  'em  out  to  folks  that  don't  want  'em,  but  only  tickle 
therselves  with  savin'  a  cent  a  spendin'  forty-nine, —  sha !  a  man 
need  n't  know  beans  t'  do  that !  " 

The  unschooled  speech  set  France  to  thinking.  It  reminded 
her  of  that  talk  with  Miss  Ammah,  among  her  sisters,  long  ago, 
when  she  had  said  that  only  to  be  middling  was  to  be  mean ; 
but  to  serve  between  was  what  every  human  creature  was  made 
and  placed  to  do.  Long  ago  1  It  was  not  three  months.  What 
made  it  seem  so  long  ago  to  France  ]  Was  it  some  of  those 
reality  measures  she  had  of  late  been  learning  ?  These  thoughts 
kept  her  silent  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Well  ] "  said  Sarell,  which  in  Yankee  means,  according  to 
punctuation,  either,  "  Now  I  speak,  and  here 's  my  mind,  or  my 
story,"  or  "Speak  you,  I'm  waiting." 

"  I  think,"  said  France,  "  that  to  find  out  your  real  between- 
ness  is  the  great  puzzle  and  all  the  good  of  living.  I  don't 
believe  there  is  anything  else  meant  by  putting  us  here." 

"  Now  you  talk  like  Mr.  Kingsworth.  Ain't  he  an  odd  one, 
for  a  minister  ]  " 

"  Is  he  1 "  asked  France. 

"  Well,"  Sarell  replied,  "  I  never  see  one  like  him.  Y'  jest 
can't  git  red  'v  him  ;  'cause  he 's  all  round,  and  ain't  any  two 
sides." 

"  What  can  you  mean  1 " 

"  Well,  I  was  n't  sett'n  out  to  talk  over  the  minister,  but  I 
don't  mind  stoppin'  t'  say  that  he  ain't  allers  either  fellership- 


THE   DAM   PASTURE.  163 

pin'  or  exhortin'.  That 's  the  two  sides  they  most  of  'em  start 
out  on.  They  're  like  the  two  rails  of  a  railroad  ;  an'  y'  can't 
git  off  the  regg'lar  track,  'less  y'  upset  altogether.  It 's  all 
saints,  or  all  sinners ;  and  the  minister  's  either  got  t'  talk  Zion 
with  the  perfessors,  or  brimstone  'n  everlastin'  —  swear — with 
the  unconverted.  But  Mr.  Kingsworth,  he  's  all  round.  He 
says  things  that  jest  ketches  either  way,  'n  y'  can't  tell  whether 
it 's  the  saint-side  or  the  sinner-side  of  y'u  't  he 's  got  hold  of. 
An'  I  don't  see  but  what  you  're  jest  the  same,  with  y'r  '  be- 
tweenness.'  D'  ye  mean  y'  think  everybody  's  a  between,  an' 
there  ain't  no  sheep,  nor  goats,  nor  nothin'  settled  ] " 

"  I  was  n't  talking  about  religion  particularly,"  said  France. 
"  I  meant,"  —  and  she  quoted  Miss  Amman's  own  definition,  — 
"that  everybody  is  between  somebody  and  somebody  else;  to 
do  some  real  service,  I  suppose,  and  fill  some  real  place,  or  else 
they  are  not  in  any  true  place  at  all." 

"Air  you  religious]"  Sarell  asked  the  tremendous  question 
as  if  it  were  not  tremendous  at  all.  It  might  be  a  little  deli 
cate  and  personal  ;  but  personal  questions  are  asked  by  the 
simple  countryTfolk  on  all  subjects  of  common  relation  and 
concern,  of  which  the  right-and-left  in  religion  is  as  much  one 
as  the  side  in  politics,  or  one's  state  in  life,  as  single  or  mar 
ried,  town-dweller  or  country-dweller. 

France  had  never  been  asked  such  a  question  before  in  all 
her  life.  She  had  hardly  asked  it  of  herself.  She  had  sup 
posed,  or  taken  for  granted  she  supposed,  that  she  was  on 
the  same  track  with  everybody  else,  —  a  track  of  gradual 
progress,  which  was  to  end  in  full  enlightenment  and,  perhaps, 
righteousness.  She  had  never  taken  her  spiritual  latitude  and 
longitude  under  the  noonday  sun. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  briefly.  "  I  don't  know  alto 
gether  what  religion  is." 

And  Sarell  replied  then  quite  simply,  but  yet  more  tremen 
dously  than  before,  "  Oh  well,  you  ain't  then,  of  course,"  and 
immediately  returned  to  the  secular  subjects  under  discussion, 
as  if  a  certain  practical  freemasonry  were  established,  and  she 
could  now  quite  freely  and  comfortably  get  forward  with  them. 

"  Well,  a  forty -nine-cent  store  ain't  fairly  between  anything 


164  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

's  I  can  see,  any  more  th'n  a  man  with  an  extry  pitchfork  be 
tween  two  that 's  a  pitchin'  an'  a  loadin'  hay.  It 's  jest  per- 
tendin'  a  place,  'n  ketchin'  a  few  mean  straws  that  drop  on  the 
way." 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  said  France. 

"  /  tell  him  so,"  said  Sarell  complacently.  "  An'  moreover, 
there  's  his  place  up  to  Uncle  Amb's  where  he  'd  leave  a  actooil 
hole,  bigger  'n  he  knows  on  ;  f ' r  'f  he  did  n't  stay  there  —  " 
But  here,  apparently,  Sarell  got  a  little  ahead  of  her  subject, 
and  broke  off,  to  go  on  with,  "  Y'  see,  Mis'  Heybrook,  she  takes 
on  'bout  my  doing  well.  Well,  ain't  I,  or  would  n't  I,  supposin'  ] 
He  ain't  not  a  great  man,  to  be  sure,  say  f'r  takin'  the  lead  ; 
but,  see  here  !  ef  you  'r  agoin'  t'  hitch  tandem,  an'  y'u  must  in 
this  world,  y'  can't  put  both  horses  ahead,  can  y'u  1  I  don't 
look  out  s'  much  f'r  smartness  in  a  man.  A  man  wants  t'  be 
stiddy  •  a  woman,  round  the  house,  with  forty  things  runnin' 
one  over  the  other's  heels,  she 's  got  to  be  smart ;  but  a  man, 
with  only  one  regg'lar  thing  't  a  time,  c'u  take  it  mod'rit.  Now 
Hollis,  he  's  real  awnest  an'  innersunt,  f'r  all  his  good  clo'es  'n 
kind  o'  style  ;  an'  he  c'n  be  kep  stiddy.  That 's  what  I  want 
a  man  t'  be,  —  stiddy  an'  awnest  an'  innersunt.  The'  ain't 
many  of  'em  innersunt,  is  ther',  Miss  France  1 " 

France,  not  being  able  to  answer  for  many  of  them,  either 
way,  did  not  answer  at  all.  She  only  smiled,  which  she  could 
not  well  help;  and  Sarell,  with  such  encouragement,  proceeded. 

"  Now,  y'  see,  it 's  best  f'r  him  all  ways  t'  keep  on  't  Uncle 
Amb's,  an'  spesh'lly  'cause  V  the  ol'  lady.  'F  't  wa'n't  f'r  nothin' 
else,  /  sh'd  hev  t'  go  back  there  on  account  'v  her,  f'r  I  don't 
b'lieve  anybody  but  me  's  got  hold  'v  the  right  string  t'  unsnarl 
things  that 's  got  to  be  unsnarled".  An'  they  're  all  mixed  up 
with  this  fem'ly,  too,  y'  see  :  that 's  where  it  clenches  me.  I 
don't  care  f'r  nothin'  else  :  't  might  go  t'  grass,  f'r  me.  But 
Uncle  Amb,  he  's  the  one  Mr.  Heybrook  took  the  li'bility  fer, 
that  got  this  farm  under  morgidge.  Everybody  don't  know 
that,  but  I  know  it.  But  all  the  town  b'lieves  he  's  got  money 
now,  an'  I  know  where  he  'd  ought  t'  pay  up.  An'  if  anything 
happened,  it  'd  hev  to  be  looked  out  fer.  That  ol'  catamount, 
she  's  watchin',  layin'  right  by  the  hole ;  an'  she  's  a  rubbin' 


THE   DAM   PASTURE.  165 

—  't  ain't  the  finger-j'ints  alone  all  that  liniment  goes  onter,  — 
an'  she's  a  liinberin'  herself;  and  you'll  see  how  bedrid  she'll 
bo  when  the  time  comes.  An'  somebody  's  got  t'  know  jest 
when  she  starts.  So  I  'm  bound  t'  keep  on  there,  an'  be  farm- 
woman,  whether  Hollis  is  farmer  or  not,  till  it's  settled,  ef  I 
don't  never  live  in  a  white  house  in  a  village,  with  green  blinds 
to  it,  'n  a  name  on  a  door-plate  ! " 

She  had  told  all  this  for  France's  opinion  upon  it,  of  course. 
When  France  sat  silent,  a  mere  recipient,  she  urged  her  desire. 

"  Ain't  I  in  the  right  on  't,  don't  you  think  ]  Ain't  it  a 
betweeuness,  'cordin'  t'  you  ?  " 

"  Possibly,"  returned  France,  with  caution.  "  If  you  are  sure 
about  Mr.  Bassett ;  caring  for  him,  I  mean." 

"  'V  course  I  care  f 'r  him.  That 's  jest  what  I  mean  t'  do. 
He  's  too  good  t'  be  thro  wed  away." 

"  Only,  yourself,  Sarell.  Are  you  sure  you  never  would 
wish  —  " 

"  Folks  can't  be  sure  what  they  never  would  wish.  Never 
means  'u  all  circumstahnces,  's  much  's  alwers,  'n  y'  don't  git 
all  circumstahnces  'n  this  world.  Y'  must  take  what  comes  t' 
y'u.  What  would  y'  do,  'f  you  's  in  my  place  1 "  asked  Sarell 
point-blank,  seeing,  perhaps,  that  she  had  too  apparently  closed 
the  argument  on  her  side. 

"0  Sarell,  how  can  I  tell  ?  You  see,  I  should  n't  be  in  your 
place,  unless  I  were  you  ;  and  then,  of  course,  it  would  be  you 
that  would  decide,  not  I,  as  it  has  to  be  now.  I  think  least  of 
all  can  one  woman  put  herself  in  the  place  of  another  in  these 
things." 

"  Well,  I  kinder  wanted,"  said  Sarell,  "  to  tell  it  out  to  one 
o'  my  own  sort,  y'  see.  Mis'  Heybrook,  she  's  old,  and  so  's 
Miss  Animah  ;  an'  I  ain't  got  anybody  that  belongs  t'  me  to  go 
to,  but  what 's  merried  ;  an'  ol'  folks  and  merried  folks  can't  put 
therselves  'n  your  place.  They  've  worked  it  out,  'n  they  know 
too  much.  Y'u  want  somebody  that 's  facin'  the  same  way  you 
be  t'  see  your  track  :  they  can't  by  lookin'  round  over  ther 
shoulders.  'F  you  sh'd  undertake  t'  come  out  jest  where  they 
air,  y'  might  git  clear  into  the  swamp  !  " 

"  Sarell,  did  you  ever  know  two  women  handle  their  hair  the 
same  way  exactly,  even  to  make  the  same  kind  of  a  twist  1 " 


166  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

"  No ;  I  've  took  notice  o'  that,  an'  it 's  queer,  too." 

"  They  don't  handle  their  lives  alike,  any  more  ;  and  yet 
every  one  of  us  is  wanting  substantially  the  same  thing.  I 
could  n't  twist  up  my  hair  your  way,  nor  you  mine." 

"  Wish  't  I  could,"  said  Sarell.  "  Yourn  alwers  looks  as  if 
't  had  curled  round  and  fastened  itself  so,  jest  like  a  vine. 
Mine,  —  lor,  it 's  like  a  vine  that 's  ben  tore  down,  an'  can't  be 
got  up  again,  any  way.  The 's  kinks  enough,  but  they  all  turn 
contrary." 

"  Now  we  have  come  round  to  toilet  matters,  I  wonder  if 
there 's  any  place  nearer  than  the  river,  where  we  could  get 
some  water  to  drink,  and  then  wash  our  hands'?" 

"  'V  course,  there  's  a  brook  right  here.  Ther  alwers  is,  in 
Fellaiden.  Hark !  Don't  y'  hear  it,  down  below  there, 
among  the  stones  1  We  '11  go  in  a  minute.  I  jest  want  t' 
ask  y'u  one  thing  more.  What  d'  ye  think  I  'd  best  'pear 
out  with]" 

"  Peer  out  7 "  asked  France,  totally  puzzled,  and  doing  her 
mental  spelling  wrong. 

"  Yes,  walk  pride,"  said  Sarell.  "  Don't  they  walk  pride  in 
the  city?  Fust  Sunday,  y'  know.  Louisy  Huland,  she  had 
blue,  so  I  can't.  Pink  's  pretty,  but  it  don't  go  with  my  hair. 
An'  green  —  well,  a  good,  rich  grass-green  might  do ;  only 
they  'd  play  ther  jokes,  some  of  'em,  may  be,  'n  say  t  I  was 
green,  sure  enough ;  an'  I  ain't  a  goin'  t'  give  'em  a  handle 
aginst  —  nobody.  I  wouldn't  hev  him  fust!" 

Which  was  a  right  wifely  spirit  beforehand,  France  thought ; 
and  also  perceived  that  the  main  question  might  be  regarded  as 
settled,  without  any  responsibility  of  hers. 

"  You  mean,  appear  as  bride  1 "  she  said,  laughing. 

"  Yes  ;  walk  pride,"  said  Sarell.  "  They  've  got  it  round  t' 
that.  Everybody  says  walk  pride.  Don't  they  in  Boston  ] " 

"  I  don't  think  they  do.  It  goes  without  saying,  there,  per 
haps  ;  but  not  particularly  the  first  Sunday  of  being  married ; 
that  is,  conspicuously,  among  nice  people." 

"  Well,  now  you  tell  me  jest  what  t'  do,  like  the  nice  people, 
'n  I  '11  do  it.  I  '11  be  genteel,  even  if  Fellaiden  folks  don't  know 
enough  to  know  it.  It  '11  be  a  satisfaction  .t'  my  own  mind." 


THE   DAM  PASTURE.  167 

"  Why  don't  you  wear  brown  ?  A  deep,  rich  brown,  with  a 
sunny  shade  in  it,  to  tone  with  your  hair.  It 's  very  becoming. 
And  then,  if  it 's  going  to  be  cool  weather,  a  brown  hat  and 
feather,  or  a  brown  velvet  bonnet." 

"  White  gloves  1 " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  !     Brown,  just  like  your  dress." 

"  My  !  nothiri  white  ? " 

"Nothing  but  your  ruffles,  and  your  pocket-handkerchief; 
and  that  must  be  in  your  pocket,  if  you  want  to  be  very  nice." 

"  Sakes  !  it 's  pocketin'  everything.  Ain't  it  kind  o'  every 
day  1  You  can't  walk  pride  but  once,  y'  know." 

"  I  'd  do  that  in  my  pocket,  or  in  my  heart ;  and  I  'd  do  it 
every  day  of  my  life,  if  I  once  began,"  said  France. 

"  Y'  can  put  y'rself  int'  my  place,  aft'r  all,"  said  Sarell. 

But  it  was  hardly  into  her  place,  as  walking  pride  with  Hollis 
Bassett. 

Yet,  as  France  has  otherwise  compared  it,  every  woman  must 
take  her  own  road.  It  may  be  a  longer  road  for  Sarell  Gate- 
ly  ;  yet  who  knows  1 

"  'T  won't  be  Tryphosy  Clark  that  '11  hev  the  buyin'  of  it, 
nor  yet  the  makin',"  said  the  bride-elect,  as  she  rose  and  led 
the  promised  way,  brookward.  "She  dressmakes,  or  sets  up 
to  ;  an'  she  goes  t'  Reade,  an'  doos  shoppin'  arrants  f'r  folks. 
She  went  t'  Boston  once ;  an'  she  took  arrants  f'r  pretty  much 
the  whole  town.  Her  own  come  out  o'  the  trimmins ;  parlor 
carpet  'n  all,  I  guess ;  f'r  she  got  one,  an'  she  got  the  church 
carpet  with  the  sewin'  society  money ;  an'  if  she  was  as  good  at 
lumpin'  business  as  she  was  at  a  sep'rit  job,  she  must  'a  p'utty 
near  made  it  out.  She  bought  me  a  fifty-cent  grennerdeen  ; 
fifteen  yards ;  an'  ther'  was  n't  any  change  out  o'  ten  dullars. 
That 's  Tryphosy.  That 's  her  betweenity.  She  's  exper'enced 
religion.  But  I  would  n't  want  her  to  pick  it  out  f'r  me,  any 
more  'n  another  grennerdeen  !  " 

Behind  the  pines,  the  slope  of  the  knoll  was  hidden  by  the 
close,  live  laurel  bushes,  and  by  tangles  of  old  stems  of  many 
that  had  been  winter-killed,  dry  and  brown,  but  showing  such 
shooting  lines  of  long,  luxuriant  growth,  like  water-lines  of 
fountains,  and  crossing  their  fine  upper  branches  in  such  deli- 


168  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

cate  screenwork,  that  to  France's  eyes  they  were  part,  and  no 
small  part,  of  the  exquisite  finish  of  the  place,  and  not  at  all 
dead  blemish.  Sarell  parted  the  green  masses  and  broke  away, 
with  reckless  hands,  the  tall,  brittle  stalks 

"0,  don't!"  cried  France.  She  would  as  soon  have  demol 
ished  the  carved  fretwork  of  some  beautiful  chapel.  "  You  are 
making  rubbish  of  it ;  and  it  was  lovely,  just  as  it  stood  ! " 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  you  do  like  brown  things ! "  said  Sarell. 
"  But  here  's  the  brook.  Look  here." 

"  Peer  out  1 "  asked  France  mischievously  ;  and  over  Sarell's 
shoulder  she  literally  peered. 

A  low,  steep  bank,  slippery  with  pine  needles  ;  thick-growing 
shrubbery  all  along,  on  either  hand,  like  that  they  had  come 
through  ;  over  opposite,  an  unbroken  hedge-line  of  it,  except 
•where  a  narrow  opening  showed  a  cattle-track  to  the  clear 
water;  the  bend  of  the  brook,  right  and  left,  burying  itself  in 
the  sweet  green  mystery  again ;  between,  its  musical,  clear 
gurgle,  and  the  cool  shimmer  and  braid  of  scores  of  tiny  falls 
and  curls  and  eddies,  with  bubbling  pools  spreading  wider  here 
and  there ;  the  bed  of  it  lovely-wild  and  broken  with  stones, 
and  green,  stately  brakes  and  tender  ferns  crowding  exuberant 
along  its  edges.  It  was  a  little  water-world,  hidden  away  here, 
utterly ;  they  had  not,  —  France  had  not,  —  known  of  it,  sitting 
within  a  stone's  throw. 

"Why,  one  thing  opens  from  another  here,  like  fairy-land," 
she  cried.  "  I  wonder  if  we  have  n't  got  into  a  seven  years' 
dream,  in  an  elf-wood  !  I  wonder  if  Heybrook  Farm  is  any 
where  about  here,  or  we  shall  ever  get  back  to  it ! "  As  she 
spoke  she  dipped  her  hands  in  the  stream  and  tossed  the  drops 
up  till  they  caught  the  sunlight,  and  fell  back,  glittering. 
Then  she  drank  from  her  curved  palm,  the  stintless  flow  fresh 
ening  itself  and  bringing  ever  virgin  waters,  that  she  might 
wash,  and  drink,  and  wash  again,  at  wayward  pleasure. 

" « Telling,  telling,  telling,  all  the  while  !  Telling,  telling, 
telling,  as  fast  as  I  can  ;  and  yet  they  never  guess  half  my 
beautiful  secrets.  Babble,  babble,  babble,  but  nobody  comes 
or  listens.  All  to  myself,  all  to  myself,  this,  and  a  hundred 
other  places  ! '  That 's  what  it  says,  Sarell ;  and  it  can  hardly 


THE  DAM  PASTURE.  169 

say  plain  for  laughing.  0,  the  brook-songs  are  n't  all  written 
yet !  but  until  there  is  another  one,"  —  and  then,  for  pure  glee, 
she  broke  forth  with  the  never  worn-out  ripple,  — 

"  I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever  —  ever, 
I  go  on  forever  !  " 

Her  clear  voice  rang  up  above  the  accompaniment  of  the 
water,  into  the  still  air,  through  which  it  vibrated  further  than 
she  knew. 

"  There  's  one,  now,"  Sarell  said  suddenly,  in  a  low,  quick 
tone,  coming  to  her  side. 

"One  what1?"  asked  France,  half  startled,  yet  with  no  actual 
idea  of  anything  more  than  a  bird  or  a  fish. 

"  One  man,  of  course,"  said  Sarell.  "  Comin'  an'  goin',  sure 
enough.  He  don't  act  as  though  he  meant  to  git  anywheres. 
I  saw  him  fust,  five  minutes  ago,  between  the  branches,  stop- 
pin'  out  there,  at  the  turn.  He  was  kinder  lookin' ;  an'  then 
he  stepped  across  the  stones  an'  went  off,  Thumble-woods  way, 
I  thought.  Now,  he's  back  again." 

"  Sarell !     Where  1 " 

Sarell  pointed  to  the  right.  "  Out  there,"  she  said,  "  right 
where  we  Ve  ben  a  berryin'.  It 's  a  wonder  'f  he  did  n't  hear 
you  sing.  'F  he 's  stay  in'  round,  —  what  '11  we  do  about  it  1 
An'  there 's  all  our  berries  out  there,  too !  It 's  a  mercy  I 
tucked  'em  under  the  birches  !  " 

France  turned  a  little  pale.  She  was  not  used  to  meeting 
strange  people  in  such  broad  solitudes.  There  was  something 
fearful,  suddenly,  in  the  beautiful,  secret  place  of  the  babbling 
brook ;  and  a  dread  lay  in  the  sweet  chamber  of  the  pines 
through  which  they  must  return.  "  You  told  me  nobody  ever 
came  here,"  she  said,  with  a  scared  reproach. 

"  No,  I  did  n't ;  for  here  we  are  ourselves,"  said  Sarell.  "  An' 
I  s'pose  he  's  got  jest  as  good  a  right.  Only,  somehow,  I  felt  's 
if  we  'd  spoke  the  place  to-day.  I  've  ben  alone  here,  fifty 
times." 

"  If  I-  had  n't  sung  that  ridiculous  song ! "  thought  France 


170  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

But  she  determined  not  to  give  words  or  way  to  any  precipitate 
panic. 

"  Was  he  a  working-man  —  or  a  gentleman  —  or  a  tramp  ?  " 
She  began  her  questioning  with  a  determined  calmness ;  but  at 
the  last  unwilling  syllable  her  whisper  fainted  to  a  breath  across 
her  lips. 

"  Why,  I  tell  y'u,  I  could  n't  see.     He  just  looked  —  black." 

"  Black  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  the  man.  His  figger,  —  against  the  light,  y' 
know,  an'  through  the  criss-cross  of  the  branches.  Lor !  the' 
ain't  nothin'  t'  take  on  about.  He  warn't  anybody ;  an'  he  's 
off  b'  this  time,  I  dassay." 

These  remarkable  and  contradictory  assumptions  failed  to  re 
assure  Miss  Everidge ;  but  she  crept  mechanically  after  her 
companion,  who  parted  the  laurels  cautiously,  and  they  re-en 
tered  the  pine  parlor. 

"  How  shall  we  ever  get  away  again  ? "  France  besought. 

"  My  gracious ! "  answered  Sarell,  with  a  great  and  sudden 
emphasis,  that  shook  off  all  possible  connection  with  what  she 
seemed  to  reply  to.  She  made  a  spring  forward,  in  which 
France  checked  her  by  a  peremptory  grasp. 

"  The  river,  the  darn  !  They  've  shut  the  water-gate.  They  've 
stopped  the  mill  f'r  somethin' !  Now  we  air  caught.  F'r  you 
can't  ever  walk  three  miles,  through  Thumble  woods ! " 

Sarell  was  in  earnest,  now ;  she  had  been  half  manufacturing 
a  fright  before.  She  rushed  from  France's  loosing  hold,  down 
the  winding  glade-way  into  the  open. 

France  stood  an  instant,  the  growing  thunder  of  the  water 
in  her  ears.  Then,  of  inevitable  necessity,  she  followed  on. 

"  There  's  y'r  brimmin'  river !  I  should  think  so  !  "  said 
Sarell,  pointing  to  the  swelling  volume  of  the  falling  flood. 
"  They  ain't  done  that  in  five  years,  afore.  An'  I  heared  the 
mill-whistle,  too ;  an'  never  thought  but  'twas  the  railroad. 
They  let  it  off  when  we  was  on  the  upland  there,  beyond  the 
oaks,  —  an'  hour  ago ;  my  head  had  n't  nothin'  but  huckle 
berries  in  it  —  an'  we  've  ben  foolin'  round,  jest  as  contented  ! 
Well,  we  may  content  ourselves  now." 

It  was  something  grand  to  see,  —  the  leap  of  the  full  stream 


THE  DAM   PASTUKE.  171 

to  its  old  channel.  Already  it  was  rushing,  in  white  foam, 
hither  and  thither,  between  the  rocks,  finding  its  old  ways 
afresh.  It  was  like  the  return  of  a  strong,  glad  brotherhood  to 
a  birthplace ;  searching  out  swiftly,  with  shouts,  the  places  they 
knew  and  had  been  kept  away  from,  and  filling  them  with  their 
rejoicing  life  again. 

The  broad,  down-spilling  sheet  was  silvery  in  the  sun,  where 
the  naked  timber  had  lain  across,  and  behind  it  the  repressed 
flood  had  waited.  .  The  mill-pond  —  wide,  but  held  between  de 
fined,  ledgy  banks,  and  with  a  back  run  of  only  that  rod  or  two, 
—  had  risen  quickly.  It  was  full  of  water,  and  for  half  a  mile 
back  of  the  little  fall  the  current  was  swift,  pressed  in  between 
the  foot  of  the  Oak  Ridges  and  the  steep  flank  of  Fellaiden  Hill. 
Above  that  it  broadened,  and  lay  in  a  lovely,  safe,  interval 
reach  ;  its  hidden  bed,  perhaps,  being  formed  against  a  checking 
incline,  where  Fellaiden  Hill  dropped  its  east-lying  buttress 
gently  northward. 

A  great,  continuous  avalanche  of  sound  had  burst  upon,  and 
possessed,  the  stillness  of  the  remote,  hushed  woodland. 

The  mill-people  —  all  but  those  who  were  busied  by  what 
ever  necessity  of  change  or  repair  had  obliged  the  stop  —  had 
gone  away  already  through  the  village.  There  was  no  one  to 
whom  to  sign  or  call ;  there  was  no  way  anywhere,  but  up 
through  the  long,  dense  forest  that  lay  around  the  foot  of 
Thumble,  or  over  the  steep  spur-cliff  that  separated  these  wide- 
enclosed  pastures  from  the  other  side  of  the  mill-hollow  and  the 
highway  beyond  the  bridge. 

The  man,  whom  for  a  moment  they  had  forgotten,  was  no 
where  to  be  seen. 

The  two  girls  stood  there,  scarce  thinking,  when  they  did 
recollect,  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  for  this. 

There  were  other  glades  which  ran  in  among  the  pine-trees; 
through  some  one  of  these,  the  intruder,  caught,  doubtless,  as 
they  were,  by  the  over-flow  of  the  dam,  had,  after  his  recon- 
noissance  which  aroused  Sarell's  questionings,  apparently  taken 
his  final  way  toward  and  over  the  brook,  and  along  some  wood- 
path. 

"Shall  we  holler]"  asked  Sarell,  first  to  consider  advisa 
bilities. 


172  ODD,   OE  EVEN  ? 

"  And  bring  that  man  back  ?  No,  indeed  !  "  exclaimed 
France.  "  What  good  would  that  do  1 " 

"  We  sh'll  want  some  help  out  o'  this  —  or  you  will.  It  '11  be 
p'utty  late  b'  time  either  o'  the  boys  '11  come  along  t'  the  bar- 
place,  'n  then  c'n  git  back  t'  the  little  crossin',  'n  down  through 
the  woods  this  side.  They  won't  think  o'  comin'  f'r  us  t'll  mos' 
sundown.  They  're  up  'n  the  turnpike  lot,  'n  I  told  'em  we 
wanted  t'  have  all  day." 

"  I  don't  care.  I  '11  wait.  But  what  will  they  do  then  ? " 
France  spoke  purposely  in  that  incorrect  impersonal  plural. 

"  0,  'f  't 's  they,  they  c'n  do  most  anything.  'F  't 's  only  he, 
—  well,  he  '11  do  something.  A  man  alwers  can.  He  's  bound 
to,  'f  he  can't.  P'raps  he  '11  fetch  a  hatchet,  'n  git  a  log,  or 
some  birches,  across  somewheres.  The'  ain't  but  one  real  wide 
place  under  the  dam.  But  we  don't  want  it  t'  take  all  night, 
y'  see.  Y'  better  lemme  sing  out,  'fore  it 's  too  late." 

But  at  that  moment,  a  clear,  strong  shout  rang  up  above  the 
noise  of  the  water.  It  came  from  somebody  by  the  brookside, 
among  the  pine  thickets. 

"  Hil  —  lo  !"  it  sounded,  first.  And  then  followed,  distinctly, 
the  syllables,  "  Miss  Fr  —  ance  !  " 

France  put  up  a  little  agate  whistle  that  somebody  had 
brought  her  from  Chamouny,  and  that  hung,  as  a  chann,  from 
her  watch-chain.  As  she  blew  a  shrill  note,  Sarell  added,  in 
almost  as  shrill  a  soprano,  "  Here,  we  're  here  ! "  choosing, 
woman-fashion,  the  vowel  of  least  possible  sonorousness  to  shout 
on.  And  as  she  said  hurriedly,  "  It  must  be  Flip  Merriweather, 
come  over  the  Instrup,  an'  goin'  up  pickerel  fishing,"  France, 
watching  the  line  of  pines,  saw  somebody  break  quickly  through 
a  cover  of  high  laurels,  and  then  Bernard  Kingsworth,  crashing 
the  fern-bushes  with  long  steps  toward  her. 

"  0,  I  am  so  glad  it 's  you  f  "  she  cried,  and  sprang  to  meet 
him.* 

Bernard  Kingsworth  looked  glad.  No  wonder,  not  knowing 
the  reason  of  that  emphasis. 

France,  unconscious,  shook  her  head  restrainingly  at  Sarell 
behind  his  shoulders,  as  she  walked  back  over  the  slope  with 
him  to  where  they  had  been  standing.  She  would  not  have 
him  know  her  girlish  fright  at  him. 


THE  DAM  PASTURE.  173 

"  This  is  a  strange  adventure  for  us  all,"  she  said,  her  quiet 
ness  and  reserve  coming  back  with  reassurance. 

"  No.  It 's  only  a  predicament,"  said  Sarell  concisely.  Her 
self-possession,  if  she  had  ever  really  lost  it,  had  returned  also. 
She  stood  idly  stripping  a  tall  bush  beside  her,  her  mouth  al 
ready  full  again  of  fruit.  "  We  may  as  well  pick  our  blackber 
ries  now,  though." 

She  began  to  gather  oak-leaves  and  to  spread  them  over  the 
blueberries  in  the  basket. 

"  Ther  's  room  f'r  two  quarts  there,  an'  the  two  pails  '11  be 
two  more,  besides  your  basket,  France.  We  could  n't  kerry  any 
more,  anyway ;  an'  we  '11  pile  the  rest  up  in  the  pine  pantry,  t' 
be  fetched  to-morro'." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  we  're  to  be  fetched  ourselves, 
first,"  said  France. 

"The's  boats,"  said  Sarell;  "an'  p'raps  they'll  start  the 
mills  agin,  'fore  night.  An'  there  's  the  Instrup  path."  She 
was  full  of  potentials  now.  A  man  might  and  should,  as  well 
as  could,  do  anything.  It  was  his  business  and  his  lookout,  as 
soon  as  he  was  there  :  she  was  there  to  pick  berries. 


174  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE   POWER  AND   THE   PARTS. 

"  I  HAD  just  come  over  what  Sarell  calls  the  '  Instrup'  path," 
said  Mr.  Kingsworth.  "  I  believe  they  call  it  so  from  '  Instep,' 
the  join  of  the  foot-hill  to  the  ankle-curve,  as  it  might  be,  of 
Thumble.  I  was  coming  up  through  the  woods  from  the  vil 
lage  ;  I  saw  the  water  rising  when  I  first  came  out  into  the 
open  pasture  above  in  view  of  it ;  I  walked  down  this  way  just 
to  watch  it,  as  it  crept  up  to  the  brim,  and  went  over ;  then  I 
thought  I  heard  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  wood,  and  turned  back 
again  toward  the  brook.  I  knew  whoever  might  be  here  would 
have  something  of  a  tramp  out  again  either  way,  and  that  they 
might  have  come  and  been  hemmed  in  precisely  as  has  hap 
pened  with  you.  Of  course,  I  did  not  dream  it  could  be  you, 
until  I  heard  you  sing." 

"  But  you  never  heard  me  sing  before,"  France  answered  with 
surprise. 

"  No,  I  never  did,"  said  Bernard  Kingsworth.  He  did  not 
ask  her  why,  since  in  the  hymns  at  church  so  many  voices  joined 
unhesitatingly ;  neither  did  he  say,  or  quite  account  for  it  to 
himself,  that  the  tones  of  her  voice,  that  should  have  been 
strange  to  him,  had  yet  not  been,  even  for  a  single  second, 
strange  at  all. 

"It  is  very  well  you  are  not  in  haste,"  he  went  on,  glancing 
at  Sarell,  who  was  pushing  her  path  through  high  tangles  a  lit 
tle  apart  from  them,  —  picking  her  way,  in  the  literal  sense  of 
blazing  a  line  through  the  fruit-laden  vines  by  stripping  them 
of  their  juicy  burden  as  she  went.  "  You  will  have  to  wait 
here  some  time,  in  any  case.  Could  you  walk  half  a  mile,  or  a 
little  more,  with  safety,  do  you  think,  Miss  France  ? " 

France  was  confident  in  the  affirmative. 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         175 

"It  will  be  rough,  but  —  with  assistance  —  I  am  glad  I  hap 
pened  to  come  this  way  to-day." 

Something  in  the  slight  hesitation,  the  choice  of  an  imper 
sonal  phrase,  instead  of  a  direct  offer  or  assurance  of  his  own 
help,  and  in  the  tone  in  which  the  word  "  glad  "  escaped  him, 
might  have  carried  sign  to  speaker,  if  not  to  hearer,  of  that 
which  was  coming  to  be  what  the  Scotch  call  "by-ordinar"  in 
the  interest  of  their  association. 

Whether  it  did  or  not,  France  asked  quietly,  without  repeat 
ing  what  she  had  already  said  impetuously  in  the  first  relief  of 
meeting  him,  "Is  there  any  choice  of  resource  for  us]  You 
said  '  in  any  case.' " 

And  Bernard  replied  as  instantly,  "Yes  ;  I  was  going  on  to 
say  there  are  several  things  to  be  thought  of."  He  took  out  his 
watch.  "  It  is  now  after  half  past  two  o'clock.  At  any  time 
after  five,  I  suppose,  they  may  come  for  you.  They  were  to 
come  for  you,  of  course  ] " 

"  Yes,"  France  said,  "  to  the  barplace  over  the  dam.  Lyman 
drove  us  down  there  this  morning." 

Mr.  Kingsworth  nodded.  He  knew  the  ways  of  the  place, 
and  had  easily  divined  the  whole  situation.  "  Then  they  will 
have  left  home  before  you  can  reach  there.  I  think  the  first 
thing  must  be  to  notify  them." 

France  exclaimed,  "  If  we  could  do  that,  we  could  get  there  ?" 
Her  exclamation  ended  interrogatively. 

"  Not  of  necessity.  To  get  you  there,  I  must  send  to  them, 
or  do  what  will  occupy  as  much  time.  One  of  the  Heybrooks 
could  come  down  with  a  boat  from  the  little  crossing.  Israel 
used  to  have  one  there,  I  think ;  or,  Philip  Merriweather  keeps 
a  skiff  somewhere  about  on  the  river,  and  I  could  find  it  or  him, 
perhaps.  If  I  go  over  the  '  Instrup '  I  shall  accomplish  both, 
possibly ;  in  which  case  the  whole  party,  fruit-cargo  and  all, 
may  be  conveyed  by  water.  But  you  will  have  to  walk  the  half 
mile  to  safe  navigation." 

He  had  not  said  that  if  one  only  of  the  little  boats  could  be 
procured  his  own  course  would  be  on  foot,  after  all  those  hours, 
with  his  extra  climb  to  be  added,  in  the  deepening  evening,  the 
whole  long  way  to  North  Fellaiden. 


176  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

"  I  can  walk  quite  well ;  I  shall  like  it,"  said  France.  "  But 
must  you  go  away  1 "  There  was  some  reluctant  remonstrance 
in  her  inquiry.  He  could  not  know,  since  it  had  been  of  her 
own  free  pleasure  to  come  here  for  all  day,  that  she  felt  any 
newly  roused  timidity  at  remaining  without  protection. 

"  I  would  rather  stay,  of  course,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  But 
that  would  not  achieve  anything.  I  had  better  address  myself 
at  once  to  the  '  Instrup.'  I  shall  dispatch  a  messenger  from  the 
village,  and  then  look  for  Phil  at  the  doctor's." 

"  Flip 's  jest  as  likely  t'  turn  up  here,"  put  in  Sarell,  whose 
moth-path  of  picking  had  come  round  beside  them.  "  He 's 
alwers  off  on  some  tramp.  He  '11  either  be  comin'  over  the  '  In 
strup  '  himself,  to  go  up  t'  the  crick  f'r  pick'rel,  or  he  '11  be  goin' 
back  agin,  'f  he  's  been  a'ready.  'Less  he  's  way  up  Thumble  agin, 
an'  then  ther'll  be  no  use,  anyway." 

"  Except  in  sending  for  Rael,"  said  the  minister,  "  which  is 
my  clear  duty  at  present ;  in  doing  which,  the  other  may  hap 
pen  also,  as  I  have  been  explaining  to  Miss  Everidge.  If  Phil 
appears  this  way  from  anywhere,  you  must  intercept  and  keep 
him." 

"  I  ain't  'gzac'ly  frettin'  after  Flip  Merriweather,  to  incept  nor 
to  keep  him,  neither  one,"  said  Miss  Gately,  with  a  spice  of  scorn, 
and  some  confusion  of  Latin  compounds  of  the  verb  "  to  take." 
But  she  did  not  say  it  to  the  minister ;  he  had  lifted  his  hat, 
and  disappeared  in  the  bushy  pathway  that  would  take  him 
toward  the  Instrup. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  was  gone  more  than  an  hour.  It  was  a  good 
half  hour's  work  to  cross  the  Instrup  path. 

France  had  lost  the  enthusiasm  of  berrying ;  besides  which, 
she  felt  the  wisdom,  as  Sarell  suggested,  of  "  savin'  up  her 
strength  t'  git  home  with."  She  tried  to  read  a  little,  while 
Sarell  picked  on  alone  ;  then  she  put  by  the  book,  and  tried  her 
wool-work.  Sketching  she  had  no  mind  for ;  she  could  not  fix 
herself  to  the  study  of  any  scrap  of  her  great  surroundings, 
while  the  whole,  from  the  towering  height  of  craggy,  pine- 
scrawled  Thumble  to  the  wide  plunge  of  the  river,  and  its  ra 
vine  of  rocks  and  foam  below,  drew  and  widened  her  gaze,  and 
strained  it  with  the  sense  of  thronging  grandeur  and  beauty. 


THE  POWER   AND   THE   PABTS.  177 

Before  long  she  had  rolled  up  her  canvas  and  wools  again,  and 
folded  her  hands  to  watch  and  wait. 

No  Phil  appeared.  But  something  else  appeared,  climbing 
over  Thumble,  —  a  surge  of  beautiful  cloud ;  white,  at  first,  in 
the  strong  sunlight ;  then,  as  light  drifts  of  vapor  floated  and 
gathered,  westerly,  and  lay  between  it  and  the  descending  sun, 
it  turned  gray  and  heavy ;  and  other  piles  reared  up,  above  the 
black  hills,  north  and  eastward,  slowly  climbing,  driven  from 
the  south,  up  the  valleys  on  the  further  side. 

"  That 's  a  thunder-head,"  observed  Sarell,  tipping  her  hat 
back  to  look  up.  "'F  it  spills  over  the  crown  this  side,  we 
sh'll  hev  it.  But  it  may  go  up  north." 

For  the  last  half  hour  of  Mr.  Kingsworth's  absence,  France 
sat  watching  the  thunder-head. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  watched  it  also,  as  he  hurried  back  over 
the  Instrup.  He  was  beginning  to  be  anxious ;  for  neither  had 
he  found  Phil  Merriweather.  They  had  only  to  wait  for  Rael 
Heybrook,  —  making  their  own  way  through  the  heavy  woods, 
meanwhile,  to  where  he  could  take  them  up ;  and  this  threaten 
ing  tempest  rearing  its  menace  at  them  from  beyond  the 
mountain. 

"But  there  is  always  a  way  out,"  he  said  to  himself;  and 
repeated  it  to  France  Everidge,  when  she  came  a  second  time, 
eagerly,  and  with  apprehensive  words,  to  meet  him. 

"  Here,  Miss  Sarell,"  she  called  cheerily,  as  they  turned  to 
gether  to  where  that  young  woman  stood  intrenched.  "  I  've 
brought  a  basket  for  your  extra  berries." 

"  Well,  there,  now  !  "  she  ejaculated ;  "  ef  you  ain't  a  master 
one  f 'r  thinkin'  'v  ev'rything !  I  thought  of  it,  's  soon  's  you 
•was  gone." 

"And  sent  the  thought  after  me,  probably.  Thoughts  do 
travel,  —  and  accomplish  their  errands,  —  if  we  did  but  know, 
and  could  believe." 

"  That  black  cloud  travels,"  said  France,  looking  upward, 
"and  drops ;  it  is  drawn  over  the  ridge  now,  like  a  cap." 

"  Then  we  've  got  it,  sure  enough,"  said  Sarell. 

"  We  are  between  the  river  and  the  storm,"  said  France. 
And  the  storm  answered  her  with  a  far-off  growl  of  thunder. 

12 


178  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

The  girl  shuddered,  quite  inwardly  and  to  herself,  she 
thought ;  for  she  would  not  senselessly  shiver  or  bemoan  ;  but 
Bernard  Kingsworth  perceived  it. 

"  There  's  always  a  way  out,"  he  said  again,  with  that  bright 
smile  of  his. 

It  lifted  her  dread  just  enough,  with  its  persistent  hearten 
ing,  to  set  her  thought  free  for  a  question. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that,"  she  said.  "  People  do 
not  always  have  a  way  out,  and  why  should  we  1  There  was 
no  way  out  at  Ash  tabula  or  at  Revere." 

"  Are  you  sure  1 " 

She  understood  the  significance.  "  Only  by  the  chariots  of 
fire.  We  do  not  want  to  go  that  way." 

"  No.  We  are  not  meant  to  want  to.  But  when  the  chariots 
come  for  us,  —  we  shall  see  that  they  are  chariots  ! " 

I  have  not  said,  perhaps,  that  Bernard  Kingsworth  was  a 
plain  man.  You  woTild  not  have  thought  of  it,  except  when 
the  brightness  of  his  nature  —  the  sudden  shining  of  some 
great  thought  or  feeling  of  it  —  transfigured  him;  and  then 
you  would  have  wondered  where  your  vision  was,  that  you  had 
not  seen  the  open  glory  in  his  face  before. 

He  stood  now  with  his  hat  off;  his  walk  over  that  steep 
path  had  been  a  warm  and  hurried  one ;  the  quick  wind  that 
began  to  flow  over  the  top  of  Thumble,  like  the  water  over  the 
dam,  as  that  urging  current  which  brings  a  summer  storm, 
rushed  up  along  its  great  southward  precipice,  swept  the 
brown  waves  of  his  hair  from  the  broad  serenity  of  his  brow ; 
and  his  eyes,  lifted  to  the  hills,  whence  the  fear  might  come 
for  others,  looked  almost  visibly  into  the  Face  of  his  Strength. 

France  had  a  strange,  thrilled  feeling,  that  might  be  like 
what  they  felt  who  stood  around  when  "  Jesus  lifted  up 
his  eyes  to  heaven,"  and  straightway,  out  of  his  own  abiding- 
place,  came  down  the  bread-blessing,  so  that  their  souls  were 
fed — the  healing,  so  that  their  bodies  were  made  whole  —  the 
peace,  that  overwhelmed  their  fear  —  the  life,  that  quickened 
them  in  the  very  graves,  and  called  them  forth.  Something 
more  than  the  gift  of  the  moment  —  that  by  which  the  gift  was 
made  possible  —  came  to  them,  with  the  Christ  and  his  open 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         179 

heaven  by  their  side.  Something  of  that  comes  by  human  con 
tact  when  any  human  soul  stands  —  in  the  blessed  order  — 
between  another  and  the  great  Light.  The  spirit  makes,  then, 
not  a  shadow,  but  a  translucence,  which  is  the  shadow  of  the 
land  that  hath  no  need  of  the  sun. 

Something  of  this  shadow  fell,  like  the  "  shadow  of  the  wings," 
upon  Frances  Everidge.  It  was  good  for  her  to  be  there.  She 
was  not  afraid  of  the  storm  any  longer. 

Her  own  face  calmed  and  lit  up,  and  repeated  into  his  what 
it  had  caught  from  it.  They  two  met  upon  a  plane,  at  that 
moment,  where  there  is  nothing  to  hinder. 

This  man  had  a  great  gift  for  her.  She  recognized  that.  In 
that  upper  region  of  her  life,  she  hailed  him  joyfully.  There 
were  many  things  she  would  fain  have  asked  of  him.  Her  heart 
warmed,  standing  by  his  side.  But  it  was  the  heart  of  the 
angel,  that  was  to  grow  in  her,  not  the  heart  of  the  woman, 
who  was  not  an  angel  yet,  and  who  would  choose  as  a  woman 
chooses,  by  some  divine  instinct,  yet  an  instinct  moving  upon 
the  earthside  of  her,  albeit  from  out  the  heavenly.  There 
are  "  discrete  degrees  "  in  all  things.  We  love,  as  we  think, 
in  different  altitudes.  I  do  not  distinguish  now  as  between 
high  love  and  baser  passion.  I  speak  of  pure,  true  things. 
There  is  a  love  which  would  not  dare,  or  wish,  to  appropriate. 
Women  have  loved  men  so,  with  something  of  that  pure  enthu 
siasm  with  which  the  Maries  loved  the  Lord.  Would  he  have 
walked  with  women  so,  and  given  so  much  of  his  gospel  through 
the  hearts  of  women,  if  that  love  had  not  been  possible  ]  How 
it  may  be  with  mere  common  men,  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps 
the  danger  is  that  the  altitude  may  be  a  transient  one,  on  both 
sides. 

With  Frances  Everidge,  as  we  have  had  some  glimpse  before, 
there  was  an  absolute,  strange  impatience  of  the  lower  level  — 
the  intimacy  of  every  day  —  with  Bernard  Kingsworth.  It 
came  largely,  thus  far,  from  a  subtile,  resistent  jealousy  of 
that  which,  to  ordinary  apprehensions,  gave  him  the  better 
chance  with  her.  Because  they  were  the  only  young  man  and 
young  woman  in  Fellaiden  of  the  same  outward  type  and  stand 
ing,  because  in  this  way,  in  spite  of  themselves,  they  con- 


180  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

trasted  obviously,  perhaps,  with  these  other  fine,  bright,  capable, 
honorable,  innately-delicate,  all  except  world-polished  and 
world-alloyed,  young  persons,  —  she  would  not,  even  in  com 
monest  ways,  be  paired  off  with  him. 

France  would  put  her  thought  in  the  plural,  when  she  mul 
tiplied  her  adjectives  in  her  mental  judgments  and  indignant 
comparisons  ;  but  it  was  scarcely  that  she  thought  of  Sarell  or 
of  Flip  Merriweather,  or  even  of  Lyman  Heybrook,  mere  un 
formed  boy  that  he  was.  It  was  of  the  man  in  the  black  coat, 
and  the  man  in  the  white  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  milk-pails, 
whom  she  had  set  over  against  each  other  that  first  afternoon 
which  had  brought  the  three  of  them  together  before  the  sub 
lime  measures  of  that  "  altar  in  the  midst  of  the  land  of  Egypt," 
and  whom  she  balanced  against  each  other  still,  with  a  resent-  . 
ment  against  the  absent  world  —  her  world  —  because  she 
knew  it  would  gauge  the  two  so  differently.  She  held  herself 
back  from  the  personal  attraction  of  Bernard  Kingsworth,  lest 
she  herself  should  be  letting  the  world-measures  sway  her. 
She  was  so  determined  to  despise  them,  that  she  almost  meas 
ured  Bernard  Kingsworth's  broadcloth  and  his  education  against 
him. 

And  all  the  while,  that  other  inconsistent  resentment  had 
been  working  in  her,  against  herself,  because  of  something  half- 
conscious  that  she  would  not  wholly  look  at,  not  being  yet  able 
to  look  at  it  with  the  braving  of  the  world  within  herself  that 
she  had  arrogated. 

How  it  would  have  been  with  all  this  if  she  had  not  begun 
here,  with  the  persuasion  that  the  nobly-anomalous  young 
farmer-gentleman  thought  her  "too  fine  to  be  fit  to  compre 
hend,"  —  how  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  known  Bernard 
Kingsworth  before  she  had  comprehended  Rael  Heybrook,  — 
how  it  might  yet  be,  if  this  summer  episode  were  passed,  and 
other  days  were  come,  with  other  growth  in  her,  and  other 
shaping  circumstance,  —  does  not  belong  to  this  paragraph  or 
chapter,  or  even  t<3  the  whole  story,  the  story  itself  being  but 
a  paragraph,  after  all,  as  all  our  human  stories  are ;  full  of 
temporary  contradiction  and  half  solution ;  comprehensible  al 
together  only  to  the  one  Author  and  Reader.  While  this  is 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         181 

so,  we  shall  go  on  criticising,  from  these  same  half  views,  each 
other's  stones  and  our  own  lives. 

When  Mr.  Kingsworth  turned  to  France  again,  how  could  he 
help  seeing  the  light  in  her  face  1  and  how  could  he  know  how 
his  own  had  shone  1  It  began  to  be  a  lovely  hour  to  him. 
For  this  hour,  he  alone  could  care  for  her.  The  rest  of  the 
world  was  put  off  by  a  wide  circumference.  They  were 
hemmed  in  here,  with  just  enough  of  an  anxiety  to  draw  them 
close ;  an  anxiety  that  it  was  his  task  to  reassure  her  in,  and  to 
turn  aside. 

But  you  will  mistake  —  and  I  shall,  if  I  leave  you  time  to 
mistake  in  —  if  you  suppose  that  there  was  any  mooniness  in 
Bernard  Kingsworth  that  would  waste  a  minute  with  the  senti 
ment  that  made  his  task  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for  that  it  was 
his,  which  was  needful  for  the  action  that  the  opportunity 
imposed  ;  or  that  his  belief  was  of  any  sort  that  would  let  him 
stand  believing,  while  the  deed  of  faith  waited. 

What  waited  now  —  or  what  were  not  left  to  wait  —  were 
the  merest  measures  of  practical  good  sense.  He  looked  care 
fully  at  the  weather-signs ;  he  noted  for  a  minute  or  two  longer 
the  drift  and  climb  of  those  cloud-masses ;  then  he  said,  "  It 
will  be  here  in  a  few  moments,  whatever  we  are  to  have  of  it. 
But  I  think  it  will  be  only  the  fringe  of  the  storm.  We  are 
better  here  than  we  should  be  in  the  low  woods.  Miss  Sarell, 
we  shall  want  those  shawls ;  and  you  had  better  make  haste 
•with  your  berries." 

Sarell,  determined  upon  filling  her  fifth  measure  of  blackber 
ries,  was  picking  till  the  last  minute.  She  left  the  plan  of 
campaign  and  the  word  of  command  to  others.  Now  she 
turned,  with  surprise.  "  Shawls'?"  she  said  ;  "  we  ain't  got  any. 
There  's  France's  waterproof,  that 's  all."  But  Mr.  Kingsworth 
came  to  her,  uncovered  the  basket  he  had  brought,  and  drew 
forth  two  woollen  shawls,  which  he  had  borrowed  in  the  village. 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  beat  the  Dutch  !  Is  the'  anything  inside 
the  shaivls  ?  " 

Mr.  Kingsworth  laughed,  and  answered  by  putting  France 
inside  one  of  them,  then  laid  the  other  upon  Sarell's  disregard 
ing  shoulders.  That  young  woman  was  stooping,  finishing 


182  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

thoroughly  the  thing  she  came  for,  whatever  the  winds  and 
the  clouds  might  have  come  for  since.  She  emptied  her  heaped 
pail,  and  dexterously  turned  the  contents  of  its  mate,  to  which 
she  had  improvised  a  tall  continuation  of  birch-bark  cylinder, 
into  the  additional  receptacle  ;  tied  a  "  tin  kittle  "  to  the  bail 
of  each  basket,  bestowing  therein  the  smaller  articles  that  had 
been  auxiliary  to  their  lunch ;  then,  just  as  a  wild  whirl  of 
wind  brought  with  it  some  great,  smiting  drops  of  rain,  she 
thrust  them  under  some  juniper-bushes  in  a  cradle-hollow, 
gathered  the  shawl  more  firmly  about  her,  and  hurried  after 
France  and  the  minister. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  led  them  into  a  deep  little  covert,  discerned 
and  resolved  on  by  himself  within  three  minutes,  between  an 
overshelving  rock,  that  made  a  partial  roof  for  them  upon  its 
leeward  side,  and  a  thick,  hedgy  group  of  scrubby  pasture 
cedars.  Against  the  rock  itself  grew  birches,  strong  and  lithe  ; 
from  these  to  the  cedars,  underneath  the  shelter  of  the 
branches,  Mr.  Kingsworth  was  stretching  and  fastening,  one 
way  and  another  —  with  its  own  buttons  and  buttonholes, 
some  pins  of  twigs  and  a  bit  of  cord  —  France's  large  water 
proof.  Under  this  little  tent  they  all  gathered,  seating  them 
selves  upon  dry  knolls  of  turf  and  moss ;  and  instantly  the  storm 
broke. 

First,  wind  ;  that  came  raging  o-ver  the  foot-hill,  bending  the 
trees,  and  whitening  its  path  across  the  upland  with  turning 
the  pale  undersides  of  grass  and  fern  and  little  birch-shrubs,  as 
it  smote  them  level ;  tearing  a  great  fringe  of  cloud  from  the 
flank  of  Thumble,  to  pour  it  down  in  shot-like  rain,  with  wide 
spaces  between  the  drops.  Then  a  fierce  descent  of  driven 
waters,  in  tense,  slanting  lines,  rushing,  unbroken  from  the 
discharging  heavens,  to  bury  themselves  like  lances  in  the 
earth.  Then  a  quick,  arrowy  flash,  and  a  simultaneous  peal  of 
thunder. 

France  involuntarily  laid  her  hand  upon  Mr.  Kingsworth's 
arm.  "  Oh  !  is  it  safe  here  1 "  she  whispered,  as  if  the  lightning, 
like  a  robber,  might  hear,  and  break  in  upon  them. 

"  It  is  where  we  are  put,"  answered  Mr.  Kingsworth,  with 
the  cheer  of  a  child  of  the  Father  in  his  voice.  And  again  the 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         183 

sense  of  childlikeness   and   rest   came   over   her,  because   he 
had  it. 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  folded  it,  with  the  other,  in  her 
lap.  If  he  had  looked  at  her,  he  would  have  seen,  even  in  the 
dimness,  that  her  face  flushed.  But  he  did  not  look  or  move, 
or  notice  that  movement  of  hers.  A  different  man  might  have 
taken  the  hand,  with  some  soothing  word  ;  but  he  knew  it  was 
not  laid  there  for  him  to  take.  His  face  was  from  her,  and  he 
did  not  turn.  I  think  the  very  thrill  of  the  touch  kept  him 
motionless.  Bernard  Kingsworth,  in  all  his  grown-up  man 
hood,  had  not  known  the  close  companionship  or  sweet, 
dependent  intimacy  of  mother,  sister,  or  —  was  this  woman 
ever  to  be  that1? — dear  woman  friend.  The  brief  clinging  of 
the  fingers,  where  a  woman's  fingers  had  never  clung  before, 
sent  the  unframed  asking,  with  the  instant  respecting  sense  of 
its  mere  involuntariness,  through  heart  and  brain. 

"  And  I  think  this  is  the  best  place,"  he  went  on,  as  if  there 
had  been  no  pause,  as  indeed  there  scarcely  had  been,  except  in 
that  realm  that  is  without  time, —  where  the  pauses  are  of 
inward  event.  "  Among  the  tall  pines,  or  under  any  of  these 
groups  of  scattered  oaks,  it  would  hardly  have  been  wise  to 
take  shelter.  But  here, —  see  how  we  are  nestled  in  among  the 
bits  of  birch  and  the  ferns,  and  all  the  little  lowly  things  that 
are  too  lowly  to  be  hurt.  See  how  the  wind  and  the  rain  drive 
off  from  us,  following  the  slant  of  the  rock.  Your  cloak  will  be 
hardly  wet.  The  storm  itself  roofs  us  over.  I  feel  very  safely 
put  by,  Miss  France  !  " 

"  You  make  me  feel  very  sure  of  your  safety,"  France 
answered,  smiling,  as  he  now  turned  to  her.  "  And  —  ours  — 
is  inseparable  from  it,  I  hope  !  "  She  had  come  near  forgetting 
Sarell,  and  saying  "mine."  It  was  not  altogether  the  self- 
rebuking  of  self  that  checked  her. 

The  wind  and  rain  slackened ;  the  burst  of  the  shower  was 
over;  a  little  bird  gave  a  solitary  note.  "  It  will  soon  be  past; 
it  is  only  the  skirt  of  the  cloud,  as  I  told  you,"  said  Mr.  Kings- 
worth. 

Sarell  sat  near  the  tent-opening,  where  the  corner  of  the 
waterproof  hung  down  from  a  cedar  bush  a  little  way  from  the 


184  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

rock,  the  shrubs  shutting  them  in  thickly  on  all  the  other  sides 
of  their  hiding-place.  At  this  moment  she  startled  them  sud 
denly. 

"Se-e  he -ere  !"  she  shouted;  again  in  that  ridiculous  femi 
nine  way,  high-pitching  her  voice,  and  straining  it  on  the 
miserable  closed  vowel.  "  Phil  —  lu  -  up  ! " 

That  did  better ;  there  came  back  a  man's  "  Hallo ! "  and 
Phil  Merriweather,  on  his  way  down  the  hill,  turned,  and  pre 
sented  himself  before  the  opening,  through  which  Sarell's  head 
and  shoulders  were  thrust  out  into  the  rain. 

"  Fill  up  !  "  he  repeated.  "  I  should  say  things  were  filling  up, 
pretty  well !  How  came  you  here  ] "  The  last  four  words  were 
overwhelmed  by  five  from  Sarell  uttered  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Where  did  you  drop  from  1 "  She  demanded  it  as  if  she  had 
hailed  him  from  pure  curiosity. 

"  Is  that  all  you  want  to  know  1  Down  Thumble, —  with  the 
rest  of  the  family." 

"Fam'lyl" 

"  Yes ;  the  Merry-weathers.  Don  't  I  look  like  it  1 "  From 
the  sloping  thatch  of  his  wide  straw  hat,  which  he  and  the 
wind  were  still  clutching  at  together,  to  the  rolled-up  hems  of 
his  trousers,  he  stood  there  dripping,  like  a  kelpie.  "  Now  it 's 
my  turn.  What  are  you  here  for  I " 

"  T'  fill  up  berry-baskets.  An'  it 's  done.  Now,  we  want  t' 
git  home  agin." 

"  We?    Who  else?" 

"  France  Everidge  and  the  minister." 

"  Thunder  ! "  said  Flip  Merriweather. 

"  No,  Mr.  Kingsworth, —  you  keep  dry.  I  '11  do  the  talkin'," 
Sarell  parenthesized  easily,  over  her  shoulder.  "I  ain't  said 
much  before,  when  't  warn't  no  use.  Thunder  ?  "  she  went  on, 
her  face  to  Flip  and  the  outer  world  again,  and  ignoring  the 
restraint  of  any  listening  behind  her.  "  Yes ;  an'  the  rain 
comin'  down  like  choppin' -knives,  fit  t'  make  surrup  'v  all  them 
blackb'ries,  beforehand;  an'  a  mile 'r  tiew  'v  woods  —  accordin' 
—  gitt'n  wet  'n  slipp'ry  for  the  way  out ;  an'  all  that  load  t' 
kerry ;  an'  th'  aft'noon  a  goin';  an'  we  sitt'n  here  under  the 
bushes,  caught  in  this  dam  scrape  ! " 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         185 

Flip  whooped  in  ecstasy  at  the  climax  of  her  rehearsal,  given 
in  her  usual  cheerful  flow  and  tone. 

"  Well,  I  say  ! "  he  shouted.  "  You  '  do  the  talkin' '  tall,  for 
the  minister  !  "  And  the  minister  and  France  laughed,  irresisti 
bly,  behind  her. 

Sarell  —  sibi  conscia  recti  —  kept  both  tone  and  countenance. 
"  Now  you  're  caught  too,  though,  it 's  all  right,"  she  concluded, 
with  careless  equanimity. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  Well,  what  do  you  propose  1 "  Flip  took 
off  his  straw  hat  as  he  spoke,  and  flapped  the  rain  from  it,  shook 
himself  generally,  and  reduced  himself  from  the  pouring  to  the 
simply  drenched  condition.  Mr.  Kiugsworth  had  come  forth 
now,  notwithstanding  Sarell's  remonstrance,  and  was  shaking 
hands  with  him. 

France  came  and  looked  over  Sarell's  shoulder  from  the 
opening.  The  scattered  lines  of  raindrops  were  glittering 
already  as  they  fell,  in  the  forth-stealing  sunshine.  They 
seemed  to  gather  themselves  up,  shrinking  cloudward,  as  they 
ceased.  "  0,  how  pretty  it  is  ! "  France  exclaimed.  "  And  how 
strange  and  quick  it  all  was  ! " 

But  Miss  Gately  never  dropped  the  thread  of  conversation, 
now  that  she  had  taken  it  up.  "We  propose  boats,"  she 
answered  Phil.  "Yourn,  f'r  one,  now  you've  come.  Where 
is  it  ? " 

"  Up  the  creek." 

"  Land ! " 

"  No.  It 's  water.  Creeks  are,  generally.  I  came  down  to 
skip  over  here,"  he  explained  to  Mr.  Kingsworth,  "to  save  the 
Instrup.  And  there  was  the  dam  !  I  mean  it  was  n't.  It  is 
going  to  stop  raining.  They  've  got  it  hard  up  Sudley  way, 
though, —  hail.  A  black  cloud  went  over  there  like  a  land-slide. 
Now,  I  '11  tell  you.  I  can 't  be  any  wetter.  The  sun  's  coming 
out,  and  half  an  hour  of  shine  '11  make  your  way  all  comfortable. 
It  has  n't  soaked  much  into  the  deep  woods,  this  side.  I  '11  take 
your  berries  and  go  along.  I  '11  have  my  boat  down  to  the 
mouth  of  the  creek  in  less  than  an  hour,  and  I  '11  wait  there  till 
you  come.  Where's  your  baskets?" 

"  I  '11  git  'em,"  said  Sarell,  pushing  forward ;  but  the  two  men 


ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

stopped  her.  "They're  back  there,  under  some  junipers,  in 
a  holler." 

"I  see,"  said  Flip.  "When  a  woman  tramps  through  the 
bushes  she  leaves  trail  enough.  You  keep  still." 

Flip  was  in  his  element.  He  was  the  man  of  the  occasion. 
He  came  back  with  a  big  basket  in  either  hand,  as  Mr.  Kings- 
worth  unfastened  the  waterproof,  and  drew  it  carefully  away 
from  over  France's  head.  She  was  so  warm,  she  said,  she 
wanted  a  breath  of  that  delicious,  rain-washed  air. 

"  You  said  '  boats,' "  said  Flip.  "  We  shall  want  more  than 
my  little  canoe,  if  we  're  all  to  go.  Where  's  Kael's  ?  You  can 
row,  Mr.  Kings  worth,  if  we  can  get  that." 

"  I  have  sent  word  up  to  the  farm.  Somebody  will  come 
down,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth. 

"  He 's  ben  over  the  Instrup,"  volunteered  Sarell,  seeing 
Flip's  stare.  "  You  ain't  the  only  one." 

"Nobody  is,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth. 

"  There,  now ;  there 's  the  betweenities,  agin  ! "  said  Sarell. 
"You  go,  Flip;  your  piece  is  between  here  an'  the  crick." 

"  I  call  that  a  clear  prov'dtince,  now  ;  an'  I  'm  free  t'  confess 
it,"  she  said,  as  Flip  went  off. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  was  spreading  the  waterproof  on  the  dry  side 
of  another  group  of  rocks,  in  the  fresh,  open  air.  "  In  contra 
distinction  to  what  1 "  he  asked,  hearing  Sarell's  words. 

"  Things  in  gener'l.  You  don't  think  everything  's  a  prov'- 
dunce,  do  you,  Mr.  Kingsworth  ]  " 

"  Everything,  if  anything.  Miss  France,  here  is  a  safe  seat. 
You  will  be  tired  standing,  and  the  grass  is  wet.  We  must 
give  the  sun  a  half  hour,  Philip  said.  Miss  Sarell,  where  does 
your  providence  begin  and  end  1 " 

France  had  taken  the  place  he  had  made  for  her,  and  called 
Sarell  to  another,  which  the  ample  cloak  also  covered.  Mr. 
Kingsworth  stood  leaning  on  the  tall  ash  stick  which  had  served 
him  for  a  climbing-staff.  He  looked  straight  into  Sarell's  face, 
expecting  an  answer. 

The  girl,  put  to  her  definitive,  considered  an  instant,  and 
then  said,  "  I  suppose  where  the'  ain't  anything  else." 

"  I  think  so,  too.  Therefore,  everywhere,  and  in  all  things, 
and  enduring  for  ever.  Otherwise,  what  is  '  providing '  1 " 


THE   POWER   AND   THE   PARTS.  187 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Kings  worth.  You  asked  me,  an'  so  I  '11  say. 
I  think  things  is  p'ovided,  gener'lly ;  an'  folks  is  p'ovided,  par 
tially,  with  common  sense ;  an'  then  they  two,  or  the  sum 
totle  of  'm,  is  set  t'  work,  au'  a  spesh'l  prov'dunce  don't  set  in, 
t'll  they  're  used  up.  I  don't  think  Prov'dunce  troubles  itself 
with  ev'ry  little  puttickl'r  thing.  But  then,  I  ain't  regen'rit ; 
nor  no  ain't  France,"  she  added,  intrenching  herself  against 
possible  individual  ministration. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  smiled.  "Did  you  pick  all  those  berries 
'generally,'  or  every  particular  one?"  he  asked  her. 

"Well,  I  d'know.  A  good  many  tumbled  in  together,  off 
one  branch,  when  I  shuck  it,  sometimes.  An'  I  suppose  that 's 
how  they  grew.  Ef  th'  Lord  said,  '  Let  the'  be  huckleberry- 
bushes,'  then  the'  was  huckleberry-bushes,  wasn't  ther?  An' 
he  don't  stop,  after  that,  creatin'  'em  all  sep'rit,  doos  he  ? " 

A  look  in  France's  face,  as  she  listened,  with  something  too 
interiorly  interested  for  a  smile,  did  not  escape  Mr.  Kingsworth. 
He  answered  Sarell. 

"  I  have  seen  you  knit,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I  don't  think  you 
paid  regard,  apparently,  to  stitches.  The  needlefuls  ran  off 
as  if  you  hardly  even  thought  of  them ;  and  the  work,  as  a 
whole,  grew.  But  I  suppose  you  will  not  say  that  there  was  no 
touch  or  movement  of  your  fingers  for  each  separate  stitch  1  or, 
so,  the  whole  would  never  be  there." 

"  Of  course.  But  I  sh'd  be  all  wore  out  'f  I  had  t'  pick  up, 
'n  put  over,  'n  pick  through,  an'  realize  it,  ev'ry  single  one,  's  I 
did  when  I  fust  learnt.  I  shouldn't  ever  knit  a  stockin',  let 
alone  a  two-an'-a-ha'af-yard  quilt." 

"  Yes ;  we  are  small,  and  easily  overcome  by  the  multitude 
of  small  things.  But  'the  Lord  of  the  whole  earth  fainteth 
not,  neither  is  weary.'  That  is  our  greatest  way  of  thinking  of 
Him.  His  power  goes  into  the  least  making,  the  least  holding 
up.  And  his  knowledge  and  joy  go  also.  He  means  it  all,  as 
we  cannot  endure  to  mean  it.  His  Spirit  '  goes  with  the  word, 
and  with  it  is  the  word  made  perfect.'" 

"  Prob'ly  I  sh'll  see  it  all  when  I  'm  c'nverted,"  said  Sarell. 

"  Or  perhaps,  as  you  begin  to  see  something  of  it,  you  will  be 
converted.  'Are  being  converted,'  would  be  saying  it  more 


188  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

rightly ;  for  we  all  see  something ;  and  they  who  see  most  need 
turning  more  and  more  toward  the  light.  It  takes  a  great  deal 
to  bring  us  face  to  face." 

"  I  like  folks  that  '11  'low  folks  t'  see  something  'thout  stoppin' 
'em  t'  make  'em  show  their  ticket,"  said  Sarell.  "  An'  I  don't 
want  to  conterdick,  neither.  But  the  way  I  see  now  is  that 
things  is  p'utty  much  done  in  the  lump.  'S  I  make  bread, 
now.  Why,  when  I  was  very  little,  I  uset  t'  think  't  my 
mother  made  a-  loaf  o'  bread  the  way  the  ants  make  an  ant-hill, 
pilin'  it  up,  one  speck  at  a  time.  An'  th't  one  piled  it  light,  'u 
another  piled  it  soggy ;  'n  I  could  n't  see  how  they  made  it 
hold,  anyway,  or  got  time.  But  now,  I  jest  take  ha'af  a  peck 
o'  flour,  an'  I  mix  it,  an'  I  work  it,  an'  set  it  t'  rise,  'n  I  bake  it ; 
an'  the  specks  take  care  of  themselves,  an'  there  't  is,  'cordin' 
t'  the  natur'  of  it.  All  I  handled  was  the  lump.  An'  the  world 
looks  jes'  so,  once  the  natur'  of  it's  made;  an'  I  can't  see  it  no 
other  ways." 

"All  you  handled  was  the  lump,"  repeated  Mr.  Kingsworth. 
"  Something  handled  the  particles ;  something  handled  their 
relation  to  each  other;  something  handled  the  fire,  and  the 
heat  of  it.  Something  took  care  of  all  that  you  brought, 
rudely,  together.  Some  might  was  alive  in  what  yon  call  the 
nature  of  it,  and  worked,  meekly,  obediently,  alongside,  under 
neath,  beyond,  your  working.  'Except  the  Lord  build  the 
house,  they  labor  in  vain  that  build  it.'  The  great  power  takes 
the  infinitesimal  part.  That  is  the  greatness,  the  infinity." 

"  Men  do  not  reckon  that  way,"  said  France  after  a  pause. 
"  A  man  who  transacts  a  great  business  does  not  hamper  him 
self  with  the  details,  and  he  is  looked  upon  as  great  just  in 
proportion  as  he  can  scheme  and  organize  grandly,  and  delegate 
the  particulars ;  carrying  the  whole  plan  and  purpose  only  in 
his  own  mind." 

"  Precisely ;  because,  as  I  said,  in  our  littleness,  forced  to 
give  up  details,  we  invert  the  truth,  and  come  to  think  of  the 
outline  as  greater  than  the  filling  up ;  of  our  thought  of  things 
as  actually  holding  them.  The  merchant  or  the  general  would 
be  the  greater  who  did  not  have  to  depute.  But  we  were 
speaking,  at  first,  of  Providence ;  of  intent  and  ruling  in  the 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         189 

things  that  happen.  Don't  you  see,  Miss  France,  that  the  real 
inclusion  of  the  less  in  the  greater  is  the  including  of  what  we 
call  results  or  exceptional  occurrences  in  the  infinite  and  eter 
nal  working  of  the  numberless  continual  causes  and  sequences 
that  we  can  never  traced  Don't  you  see,  Miss  Sarell,"  turning 
to  her  with  a  definite  illustration,  as  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  was  lapsing  into  a  phraseology  and  abstraction  that  might 
be  all  quite  overhead  to  his  simpler  auditor,  "  that  it  is  a  more 
wonderful  thing  that  God  should  have  taken  care,  with  all  the 
complications  of  all  things  else,  from  the  very  beginning  of 
things,  from  the  making  and  succession  of  all  winds  and  rains, 
and  in  all  the  human  lives  and  happenings  till  this  very  mo 
ment,  that  help  and  sparing  should  come  to  us  in  this  very 
little  need  of  ours,  than  it  would  have  been  if  He  had  inter 
fered  with  an  afterthought  instead  of  a  forethought,  and  turned 
things  and  people  out  of  what  we  call  their  natural  course  ] 
Isn't  it  a  greater  providing  that  He  should  have  made  it  in 
the  order  of  things  that  the  rain  should  stop,  and  that  Philip 
should  come  this  way  rather  than  the  other ;  but  should  have 
so  ordered  that  order,  that  it  should  play  exactly  right  for  us, 
without  working  disorder  for  anything  else?" 

"  What  if  it  had  not  happened  right,  as  we  call  it,  for  us  1 " 
said  France. 

"  Then  it  would  have  been  right,  as  we  should  have  seen  it 
presently,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth.  "  The  happenings  are  never 
ended  with  what  we  call  either  right  or  wrong." 

"  But  there  is  natural  law,"  said  France,  "  that  we  can 
break,  or  run  against,  and  that  Providence  won't  break,  or  turn 
aside  from.  And  then,  there  is  that  question  about  asking ; 
that  can  make  no  difference,  they  say,  because  of  law.  They 
are  always  telling  us  about  those  things,  now." 

"  They  stop  short  in  the  telling,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth,  "  they 
leave  out — just  the  providence.  That  the  breakings  and  the 
repentings  and  the  askings  are  all  foreseen  and  provided  for. 
'  Before  they  call  I  will  answer.'  The  answer  has  been  laid  up 
from  that  first  '  ever.'  " 

France  glanced  inquiringly. 

"  '  The  kingdom  and  the  power,  for  ever  and  ever.'     Away 


190  ODD,   OB  EVEN? 

back  in  what  we  call  done  with  and  we  cannot  alter,  but  in 
what  the  Lord  has  never  taken  his  hand  from.  '  Yesterday,  to 
day,  and  forever  ' ;  that  is  the  word  and  the  Christ.  We  ask 
back  into  the  Past  when  we  ask  help  and  forgiveness.  And  He 
is  there,  the  Same." 

"  Does  what  we  do,  then,  not  matter  1 " 

"'Shall  we  continue  in  sin  that  grace  may  abound]  God 
forbid  ! '  It  matters  everything.  The  grace  may  have  to  abound 
'  to  the  uttermost,'  through  consequence  that  we  call  retribution, 
to  time  of  which  we  say  '  forever.'  " 

"  And  yet,  anywhere,  it  can  be  turned  for  the  asking  1  That 
seems  like  reversing,  —  interfering.  They  tell  us  we  can  be 
really  saved  from  nothing  ;  that  to  stop  a  drop  of  water  out  of 
its  natural  course  would  be  to  bring  on  a  convulsion  of  worlds." 

"Only  what  they  call  'natural  course'  is  but  the  little 
piece  of  one  straight  line  that  they  can  see.  God  works  at  the 
whole  diagram.  Miss  France,  you  taught  me  '  patience  '  the 
other  day.  Under  certain  rules  we  worked  out  the  result  we 
wanted.  If  there  had  been  no  rules,  where  would  have  been 
the  beauty,  the  power,  the  interest]  God  makes  to  himself 
rules,  and  in  these  he  does  all  things." 

"  But  the  rules  do  hinder  '  patience '  from  coming  out  at  all, 
sometimes." 

"  Because  we  can  neither  invent  perfect  rules  nor  play  all  the 
possibilities  perfectly.  God  can.  His  Patience  is  an  Infinite 
Game." 

"  A  game  ?  " 

"  That  seems  to  you  a  light  word  1  I  used  it  with  its  fullest 
intent.  '  Game,'  traced  back,  is  'gaman,'  — joy  ;  traced  further 
back,  is  '  kam,'  —  to  love,"  said  Mr.  Kingsworth. 

"  In  a  game,"  said  Sarell,  who  listened  with  her  own  rough 
common  sense,  caught  what  she  could,  and  applied  according  to 
the  previous  preparation  of  her  own  mind,  "  something  beats  an' 
something  gits  beat,  alwers.  Now  I  'd  jest  ike  to  ask  you,  Mr. 
Kingsworth,  'cause  I  ain't  religious,  what  some  of  us  is  jest  put 
here  t'  git  beat  for  1  The  game  —  you  said  we  might  say  so  — 
would  n't  be  anything  athout  two  sides  to  it.  Ain't  it  p'utty 
clever  in  us,  after  all,  t'  keep  up  the  sinner  side  so 's  't  the  saints 
may  hev  it  out,  an'  hev  the  best  of  it  1  ' 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  PARTS.         191 

"  If  the  game  could  possibly  be  against  any  human  souls,  and 
the  prize  of  the  calling  could  possibly  be  an  exulting  of  escape 
and  contrast,"  said  the  minister ;  "  but  the  Everlasting  Provi 
dence  is  the  grand  and  perfect  ordering  of  all  souls,  and  for 
them,  — just  where  they  will  be.  We  may  be  in  the  line  of  the 
conquering  harmony,  or  we  may  be  in  that  which  opposes  a  seem 
ing  hindrance  or  disorder.  We  must  be  in  the  one  or  the  other, 
for  we  all  work  in  line,  each  in  his  place,  upward  or  downward. 
We  are  all  kings  and  priests  in  the  lineage  of  our  power  and  in 
the  order  of  our  consecration.  We  all,  for  good  or  for  evil,  do 
both  '  pray '  and  '  preach ' ;  '  make  known,1  that  is,  both  ways  ; 
as  we  declare  our  want,  and  give  on,  declaring  ourselves  again 
as  we  have  received.  We  are  between  powers  and  powers  by 
every  act.  And  our  doing  comes  back  to  us,  in  the  fulfilment 
of  other  doing,  from  above  or  from  below  us.  We  may  move 
angels ;  we  may  move  devils ;  and  we  move  ourselves,  by  the 
same  force,  toward  our  joining  with  either.  That  is  the  awful- 
ness  and  the  blessedness  of  living." 

"Did  you  mean  all  that  by  your  ' betweenness,'  France?" 
"  You  have  given  us  a  beautiful  sermon,  Mr.  Kingsworth," 
said  France,  passing  by  Sarell's  question. 

"  Have  I  ?  I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  discourse.  But  if  it  has 
been  a  sermon  in  the  sense  of  a  true  joining  of  a  truth  to  an 
apprehension,  I  am  glad  that  we  have  apprehended  together. 
Will  you  tell  me  what  Miss  Sarell  means  by  your  word,  —  the 
'  betweenness  '  ] " 

"  It  was  not  my  word  exactly.  It  was  Miss  Ammah's  once  ; 
she  said  everybody  was  between  somebody  and  somebody  else ; 
just  what  you  have  been  saying,  only  we  were  talking  of  busi 
nesses,  —  callings,  —  in  the  world  ;  that  it  was  not  high  or  low, 
but  that  every  real  business  or  doing  was  between.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  there  are  two  ways  of  it,  —  being  between  for 
what  you  can  do  for  right  and  left,  and  being  so  for  what  you 
can  yet  from  right  and  left.  There  are  some  betweens  that 
have  no  business  to  be." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  France.  You  have  given  me  a  beautiful 
text,  now,  for  a  sermon.  Perhaps  I  shall  try  to  preach  it,  day 
after  to-morrow.  But  to-night,  —  the  sun  is  doing  his  shining 
low  now,  and  we  must  get  you  home." 


192  ODD,   OB   EVEN? 

I  wonder  if  Bernard  Kingsworth  did  not  see  that  he  was 
establishing  a  relation  with  this  girl  —  she  being  just  what  she 
was,  a  good  deal  short  of  an  angel  and  yet  not  a  rushing  fool  — 
that  might,  that  almost  must,  in  the  every-day  working  of  every 
day  life,  preoccupy  against  that  other  which  ordinarily  develops 
and  subsists  upon  a  certain  level  that  daily  life  may  maintain  1 
That  he  was  setting  himself  forth  where  she  would  look  upward 
to  him  at  her  highest  gaze ;  not  dream  of  being  able  to  walk 
hand  in  hand  with  him ;  not  desiring,  or  in  an  attitude  to  de 
sire,  what  from  him  would  almost  seem  like  a  profaning  of  the 
heavenly  with  the  earthly. 

Or,  not  setting  forth  himself  at  all,  but  the  truth,  would  he 
have  gone  on  just  the  same,  though  he  had  known  that  for  the 
truth's  sake  he  was  patting  from  him  the  fair  possibility  of 
earthly  joy  and  earthly  marriage  ] 

It  is  hard  to  receive  the  saying,  save  for  them  to  whom  it  is 
given. 


A  WORLD  FOB  ME.  193 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

A  WORLD   FOR  ME  ! 

THE  sun  was  indeed  getting  low  over  the  hills  ;  there  is  an 
intermediate  sunsettiug  in  these  mountain  regions  that  makes 
the  double  twilight  and  the  manifold  coloring  a  long  and  lovely 
wonder. 

In  the  deep  woods  which  they  presently  entered  the  day  had 
cooled  and  faded  ;  the  air  was  full  of  wet  fragrance  from  every 
kind  of  aromatic  stem  and  leaf  that  had  been  so  lately  steeped 
in  the  rain  and  shaken  again  by  the  warm  wind.  Every  step 
pressed  forth  an  odor ;  the  slant  gleams  of  light  searched  into 
horizontal  reaches  of  beautiful  forest,  beneath  and  among  close- 
weaving  branches  that  only  the  rabbit  and  the  wild  bird  and 
their  like  could  thread,  the  more  charming  and  mystical  because 
human  creatures  might  only  peer  in  and  make  to  themselves 
sweet  fables. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  made  France  use  his  climbing-staff;  he 
showed  her  how  to  plant  it,  how  to  time  it  with  and  make  it 
help  her  own  steps  ;  at  hard  places,  where  any  spring  or  reach 
was  necessary,  he  took  her  arm  and  partly  lifted  her  across ;  for 
the  most  part  he  quietly  preceded  her,  turning  aside  the  branches 
and  choosing  the  smoothest  way  for  her  to  follow.  It  was  happy 
care  to  him  ;  he  was  beginning  to  discern  clearly  how  happy, 
and  what  a  wish  was  growing  with  it ;  for  her,  she  took  it  as 
she  took  his  teaching.  He  was  greater  and  stronger  and  wiser 
than  she  ;  it  was  good  for  her  that  she  had  known  him ;  it  was 
a  great  deal  for  him  to  do,  to  accompany  her  and  guard  her  in 
these  little  ways ;  she  felt  safe,  she  felt  a  gratitude  that  was 
sweeter  for  her  reverence,  a  reverence  that  was  sweeter  for 
her  gratitude ;  she  felt  the  nearness  of  the  noble,  that  it 
quickens  and  ennobles  one  to  feel ;  she  was  on  a  high  occasional 

13 


194  ODD,   OB  EVEN? 

plane ;  it  was  a  mountain-top  of  intercourse  :  presently  she  would 
come  quite  gladly  down  again  with  what  the  hour  had  given 
her.  to  be  the  better  for  it  through  many  hours  of  commoner 
living,  the  week-day  times  and  places  that  must  be  six  to  one 
until  the  whole  world  comes  to  a  Sabbath  that  needs  not  to  be 
set  apart,  —  a  city  of  habitation  in  which  there  will  not  have  to 
be  any  temple. 

Do  not  think  less  of  my  heroine.  I  have  taken  her  just  where 
she  was,  among  the  "  Everidges  " ;  there  must  be  a  great  many 
of  them  among  us  a  long  time  before  the  Kingsworths  will  be 
come  the  common  people.  But  I  think  she  was  noble  in  her 
place,  and  growing  toward  a  nobler ;  that  is  why  I  like  her  and 
have  taken  her.  I  only  cannot  make  her  quite  in  love  with 
Bernard  ;  perhaps  you,  my  girl  reader,  are  not  yet  ready  to  be. 

When  they  came  out  at  last  into  the  fair,  still  light  upon  the 
open  river,  where  the  creek  stopped  the  woodpath,  and  the 
thick  forest-growth  gave  way  again  to  low  alders  and  birches 
and  laurel-bushes,  there  lay  the  two  little  boats,  —  the  lightest 
possible  fishing-skiffs,  that  could  follow  the  narrow,  shallow 
waters  and  hide  anywhere  in  the  nooks  and  inlets  of  their  mar 
gins.  Flip  Merriweather,  his  striped  shirt  dried  comfortably 
upon  his  back,  and  his  coat  still  spread  upon  a  bush  where  it 
had  got  such  a  drying  as  it  might,  sat  waiting  in  one.  Israel 
Heybrook  was  in  the  other. 

It  was  settled  that  Flip  should  take  the  minister  and  the 
load  of  berries,  Rael  the  two  girls.  Flip  threw  his  coat  across 
the  bit  of  seat  between  the  bows ;  Mr.  Kingsworth  took  his 
place  in  the  stern,  ready  to  handle,  if  need  be,  the  tiny  tiller. 

Sarell  was  used  to  steering,  and  there  were  irregular,  weedy, 
osiery  patches  in  the  river,  and  narrow  bends  between  its  sandy 
little  flats,  which,  with  three  in  the  boat,  would  make  steering 
needful.  Would  France  mind  the  seat  in  the  bow,  —  for  which 
Rael  had  a  cushion  ready,  —  or,  could  she  (it  was  very  easy) 
manage  the  tiller  1  There  was  a  slight,  unconscious  emphasis 
upon  the  "  could "  in  Eael's  question,  and  a  persuasion  in  his 
parenthetical  assurance.  He  would  rather,  certainly,  give  her 
the  best  place ;  and  France  had  steered  a  boat  once  or  twice 
upon  a  pond.  She  thought  she  would  like  to  try  again,  under 


A  WORLD  FOB  ME.  195 

orders.  Rael  smiled ;  they  sat  face  to  face  with  each  other. 
Rael  pressed  his  oar  against  the  bank,  and  the  boat  slid  forward 
on  the  smooth,  golden  water. 

Just  as  they  parted  immediate  company,  Mr.  Kingsworth  rec 
ollected  something. 

"  I  had  nearly  left  your  letter  in  my  pocket  all  night,  Miss 
France,"  he  said ;  "  for  I  had  quite  forgotten  it,  the  mail-deliv 
ery  not  being  usually  in  the  Thumble  woods."  And  he  reached 
across  to  her  a  business  envelope,  with  her  name  upon  it  in 
her  father's  handwriting. 

France  put  it  in  her  own  pocket.  "  I  will  save  it  till  I  get 
home ;  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  It  won't  be  long  to  read. 
Papa  always  writes  in  a  hurry,  and  sometimes  he  signs  himself, 
'  Yours  affectionately,  George  H.  Everidge  and  Company.' " 

The  girl  laughed,  with  a  happy  note  in  her  voice.  Some 
thing  —  the  letter,  or  the  golden  light  upon  the  water,  or  the 
novelty  of  the  lovely  river-way  in  the  warm,  hushed  twilight, 
ending  such  a  play-day  after  her  long  restraint  —  made  in  her, 
as  they  floated  off  with  that  delicious,  dreamy  motion,  a  vibra 
tion  of  pure  joy. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  together,  she  and  Rael, 
since  that  night  so  long  ago.  This  was  the  joining  to  that  other ; 
and  straight  from  the  holiday  in  the  woodlands  and  the  hill- 
quarries,  and  on  the  steep-winding,  glorious  mountain  roads,  they 
slipped  into  this  evening  stillness  and  beauty  with  each  other, 
—  almost  alone,  for  they  two  only  were  face  to  face,  —  under 
that  color-lit  sky  and  upon  this  outspread,  opal-shining  stream. 

France  would  not  pretend  to  know  she  was  so  happy;  she 
would  not  quite  look  at  her  own  delight,  lest  she  should  find  it 
out  not  all  to  be  from  the  joy  of  the  restful  heaven  or  the  drink- 
ing-in  of  the  water  peace.  She  sat  silent.  Rael,  pulling  up 
stream,  and  leaning  to  his  oars,  made  obeisance  to  her  in  his 
heart  every  time  he  bent  toward  her.  It  was  like  something 
he  did  not  think  of,  but  which  moved  him  gladly ;  it  was  like 
the  life-effort  he  could  make  —  the  pull  up  stream  against 
whatever  current  —  with  such  a  face,  smil ing-happy,  turned 
toward  him,  toward  him  alone. 

France  began  to  sing  —  not  words.     She  broke  into  a  tremu- 


196 

lous,  deep  warble  of  notes,  that  presently  climbed  into  a  sudden 
ecstasy.  They  fitted  themselves  to  the  transport  of  the  mo 
ment  ;  to  the  movement,  up  and  on,  into  an  ever  unfolding  tri 
umph  and  satisfying  of  that  wonderful  hour,  —  the  hour  and 
the  place  were  surely  enough,  —  as  it  lingered  and  revealed  itself 
upon  the  hill-tops,  clothed  in  a  hundred  tints ;  as  the  hill-tops 
changed,  leaning  and  overhanging  and  sliding  away,  while  they 
passed  up  beneath  their  glory  or  their  shadow ;  as  the  day,  hid 
ing  behind  those  western  summits,  seemed  to  loiter  there  in  a 
beautiful  miracle,  playing  at  going  down,  and  prolonging  and 
multiplying  every  gorgeous  and  tender  phase  of  its  declining. 
It  was  as  if  something  of  the  Beyond  unrolled  itself  in  exquisite 
promise  and  fore  touch ;  as  if  great  gates  were  open,  through 
which  one  day  —  into  which  this  day  was  transfiguring  —  they 
might  sail  in  to  an  eternal  blessedness.  It  made  life  feel  as  if 
its  best  were  near. 

And  the  syllables  of  France's  song,  if  she  had  uttered  them, 
as  from  some  hidden,  unthought  impulse  the  music  of  it  rushed 
to  her  lips,  would  have  been  that  impassioned  outpouring,  — 

"  I  shall  meet  him  where  we  always  meet  ; 

He  is  waiting,  waiting  for  me  ! 
My  heart  is  full !  I  can  hear  it  beat ! 

I  am  coming,  I  am  coming,  — 
I  am  coming,  my  love,  to  thee  !  " 

It  was  a  song  she  had  heard  only,  she  had  not  been  used  to 
sing  it.  Its  music  came  first,  then  suddenly  she  recollected  the 
words,  and  like  the  dropping  lark's  or  the  hushing  nightingale's, 
all  the  effluent  revel  of  sound  quenched  instantly  in  a  deep  of 
silence. 

"  O,  sing  again ! "  said  Rael ;  and  stopped  with  the  three 
words,  as  she  had  stopped  with  her  singing. 

"0,  I  can't!"  France  answered  and  laughed.  "It  sang  it 
self,  and  it  left  itself  off.  It  was  the  sunset  singing." 

"  It  was  more  like  the  sunrise,"  said  Rael ;  and  again  he  said 
no  more. 

Sarell  was  wonderfully  silent.  If  she  and  Rael  had  been 
alone,  no  doubt  she  would  have  sung.  It  seems  an  instinct  with 
young  people  to  sing  when  they  are  riding  or  sailing  in  beau- 


A  WORLD  FOR  ME.  197 

tiful  hours  and  places ;  then  the  globe  itself  seems  only  some 
palace  vehicle,  and  they  borne  on  through  spaces  of  an  infinite 
life-ecstasy.  They  sing  as  the  morning  stars  sang  when  they 
were  born.  And  Sarell  was  nearly  always  singing,  though  she 
knew  little  music  but  the  popular  catches,  and  the  Moody  and 
Sankey  hymn-tunes. 

But  to-night,  with  these  two  there  before  her,  and  after  France 
Everidge's  voice  had  lifted  itself  up  in  just  that  one  strange 
strain,  she  did  not  feel  Moody-and-Sankey-like.  She  hardly  felt 
like  Sarell  Gately,  the  exuberant. 

This  world  is  so  full  of  strange  "  might-be's  "  !  It  is  not  the 
Maud  Mullers  alone  who  look  back  and  sigh  and  dream  in  the 
potential  preterite ;  the  might-be's  are  all  around  us,  every  one, 
in  the  present.  We  see  things  we  might  live,  if  there  were  only 
a  little  more,  or  different,  of  us;  there  is  but  just  such,  and 
enough  to  give  us  the  insight.  We  see  into  lives  around  us  as 
we  see  into  heavenly  things,  —  truly,  too,  as  we  see  into  the  in 
fernal  things.  "  But  for  the  grace  of  God,"  and  "  Were  it  the 
grace  of  God,"  are  words  with  which  we  may  put  ourselves  into 
any  human  places.  We  do  it  in  that  potential  of  us  which  is  the 
protoplasm  of  our  spiritual  creation.  Then  —  without  sighing, 
just  because  we  cannot  bear  to  sigh  —  we  take  up  the  fact  where 
we  left  it,  and  live  on ;  not  quite  as  we  should  have  lived,  had 
we  not  seen,  else  why  the  vision  1 

Sarell  took  up  what  she  called  her  "  circumstance,"  and  con 
tented  herself  with  it :  she  knew  what  was  for  her,  and  what 
was  not.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  certain  something  that  laid 
a  hand  upon  her,  and  quelled  her  down,  in  this  near-coming, 
in  her  very  outward  sight,  of  that  in  which  she  could  not  be  a 
part. 

What  would  it  seem  like  to  her  that  Rael  Heybrook  should 
say  to  her  in  that  tone,  "  0,  sing  again  "  ? 

She  had  very  nearly  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Hollis  Bas- 
sett,  —  he  was  her  circumstance,  — and  to  live  at  East  Hollow. 
Yet  here,  at  Fellaiden  West  Side,  at  the  Heybrook  farm, 
were  all  the  happiest  chances  and  episodes  of  her  experience  till 
now,  —  the  strongest  and  most  loyal  interests,  too,  though  her 
equality  and  her  possibility  were  elsewhere ;  for  was  she  not 


198  ODD,   OE   EVEN  ? 

going  to  put  herself  where  she  could  "  see  to  things  "  that  in 
volved  the  Heybrook  weal,  and  chiefly  for  that  purpose  1  She 
could  marry  Hollis  Bassett,  if  she  liked,  and  "  'pear  out "  at 
Wakeslow.  An  obscure  tang  of  bitterness  crept  into  her  feel 
ing,  seeing  these  two  as  they  were  to-night,  and  thinking  what 
she  meant  to  do  for  Rael. 

Not  that  she  saw  so  definitely  what  the  two  did  not  see  for 
themselves :  she  only  perceived  the  like  to  like,  in  an  estate 
and  order  to  which  she  could  but  almost,  and  with  her  farthest 
ideal,  come.  She  could  not  have  stayed  there,  any  more  than 
France  could  yet  stay  where  Bernard  Kingsworth  abode  in  the 
spirit;  any  more  than  the  angels  of  the  third  heaven  can  be 
more  than  caught  up  into  the  first,  or  a  man  into  the  third. 

The  strain  upon  us  is  hard  ;  yet  but  for  the  strain  where  would 
ever  be  our  heaven  1 

Sarell  was  so  quiet  —  turning  half  around,  and  leaning  in  the 
bow,  trailing^  bit  of  bush  that  she  had  been  shading  her  eyes 
with  in  the  softly  parting  water  —  that  they  half  forgot  her 
presence.  It  was  easy  to  forget  things  that  did  not  assert 
themselves. 

"  I  have  been  talking  with  Miss  Ammah  again  to-night,"  Rael 
said.  "  She  has  bought  the  Gilley  place,  —  right  out,  house 
and  all.  She  has  given  fifteen  hundred  dollars." 

"  I  knew  she  would  buy  it,"  said  France.  "  She  quite  meant 
it.  She  only  left  you  'to  get  used  to  it '  she  said." 

"  I  shall  never  get  used  to  it  so  as  not  to  feel  her  goodness," 
said  Rael.  "  She  insists  that  it  is  for  her  own  pleasure  ;  and  I 
suppose  in  a  way  it  is,  or  I  could  not  take  it  easily  at  all.  She 
is  fond  of  Fellaiden,  and  she  is  younger  and  a  good  deal 
stronger  than  my  mother.  Our  home,  I  suppose  she  thinks, 
may  not  always  be  open  to  her." 

Rael  was  rowing  slowly  ;  the  other  boat  —  Flip  was  an  expert 
oarsman ;  he  spent  more  time  in  pleasure  than  Rael  Heybrook 
did  —  had  worked  ahead.  The  intricacies  of  the  river  were  be 
ginning  ;  it  bent  and  twisted  here  under  the  crags ;  and  little 
bushy  islets,  grown  up  on  ledgy  rocks,  divided  the  current,  and 
made  its  depth  and  force  irregular,  as  it  shot  and  wound  along 
their  broken  stretches. 


A   WORLD   FOR   ME.  199 

"  Now  the  tiller,  please  !  "  Rael  said  to  France.  "  To  the 
left;  that  bears  us  to  the  right,  you  know.  Ease  a  little;  now 
bear  a  little  more.  Keep  for  that  white  point  of  bare  rock  in 
the  projection  of  the  Thumble  woods." 

France  got  eye  and  hand  together,  feeling  the  working  of  the 
tiller,  and  sat  intent ;  her  look  fixed,  like  a  pilot's,  on  the  mark. 
Rael  smiled  to  see  her  earnest  fidelity,  that  was,  perhaps,  be 
yond  the  occasion.  It  was  in  her,  though,  for  the  occasion  that 
should  need  ;  and  the  smile  had  that  recognition  in  it,  also. 

They  swept  round  under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  ;  a  rocky 
promontory  behind  them  put  its  curve  about  them  like  an  arm, 
and  walled  them  from  the  southwest ;  the  gentle  south  slope  of 
Fellaiden  Hill  reached  upward  from  across  the  river-line  as  they 
followed  the  shadowy  bend  that  was  like  a  little  tarn.  Over 
them,  the  clouds  were  pink  and  flame-color,  and  the  blue  was 
tinted  with  chrysoprase.  In  a  cradle-dip  of  the  high  horizon, 
between  two  swells  of  dusky  green,  the  young  moon  was  lean 
ing  her  soft  white  breast  toward  the  vanished  sun,  like  the 
downy  breast  of  a  bird.  Further  north,  through  a  saffron 
glow  that  almost  veiled  it,  burned  the  ineffable  spark  of  the 
evening  star. 

"  Oh,  stop  !  "  cried  France  ;  and  Rael  lifted  his  oars. 

They  were  all  alone  there.  The  other  boat  had  already 
passed  around. 

A  whip-poor-will  began  to  sing.  Its  clear,  sweet  notes  cut 
through  the  still  air  with  swift  repeating  lashes  of  sound.  Not 
"  whip-poor-will,"  but  "  a-world-for-me  —  a-world-for-me,"  its 
lone,  rapt  whistle  seemed  to  say. 

"  Do  you  hear  that  1 "  asked  France  softly.  And  then  she 
translated  it. 

"  I  hear  it  now,"  said  Rael.  "  I  suppose  I  felt  what  it  was, 
before.  I  often  have." 

"To-night,"  said  France,  "we  are  here.  It  is  not  all  for  the 
whip-poor-will.  But  how  many  nights  there  is  nobody  here, 
or  in  the  ten  thousand  other  places  that  are  being  so  beautiful. 
That  is  what  I  think  in  those  lovely  wood-corners,  where  no 
body  goes.  Once  in  years,  somebody  finds  them,  and  has  that 
strange  pleasure  of  finding  that  is  half  a  puzzle  why  they  are 
hid  away  so." 


200  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why,  and  enough,"  said  Rael.  "  Or,  I  sup 
pose  pleasantness  is  pleasure,  somehow ;  a  fact,  independent  of 
our  finding  ;  or  else  it  would  n't  be  to  be  found.  I  don't  sup 
pose  we  can  be  pleased  without  a  pleasure,  any  more  than  we 
can  hear  without  an  atmosphere  that  is  all  alive  with  sound,  or 
.see  without  a  sunlight  that  is  full  of  its  own  pictures.  I  sup 
pose  it  is  all  there  ;  that  it  is  —  " 

But  if  the  thought  completed  itself,  it  was  not  in  speech. 
He  left  the  sentence  there. 

The  whip-poor-will  finished  it.  "  A-world-for-me  —  a-world- 
for-me,"  he  kept  saying. 

The  "  Good  Pleasure  "  for  which  "  all  things  are,  and  were 
created,"  a  living,  loving  Reality  in  these  "  waste  places "  of 
beauty,  waiting  for  the  children  and  the  creatures  —  human 
souls  and  little  birds  —  to  come,  and  to  share  it ;  for  the 
human  souls  to  be  touched  by  it,  so  as  to  find,  if  they  will,  that 
which  is  ever  dividing  itself,  as  bread,  for  them  ! 

Hidden  away,  the  waste  places,  for  that  "  why "  and  that 
"  enough  "  !  Prepared,  adorned,  like  festal  chambers,  for  a  kind 
surprise,  where  the  Heart  that  has  devised  it  crowns  its  own 
divine  delight  with  the  happy  wonder  of  the  "little  flock"  to 
whom  it  means  to  "  give  the  kingdom." 

Close  to  that  Great  Heart,  and  so  the  closer  to  each  other, 
the  girl  and  youth  found  themselves,  and  kept  silence,  and  lis 
tened  to  the  Word  of  it,  that  —  virgin-modest  before  the  sacred- 
ness  —  neither  ventured  to  speak  further.  Not  "  religious," 
either  of  them,  they  thought,  and  therefore  shy  of  a  religious 
utterance  ;  but  I  wonder  if  the  vital  thing  were  not  growing 
in  them,  with  that  pleasantness  which  was  a  Presence  all  about 
them,  and  that  something  scarce  understood,  and  no  less  a 
Presence,  in  their  hearts  ] 

I  wonder  if  that  moment,  and  that  thought,  and  that  point 
in  their  young  lives,  and  that  lovely  river  and  sky  solitude,  had 
not  all  been  meant  for,  and  bearing  toward  each  other,  in  those 
Purposes  that  we  are  so  apt  to  think  cannot  be  purposed,  — 
ever  since  —  and  before  —  those  waters  and  those  skies  were 
made? 

"  I  shall  meet  him  —  I  shall  meet  her  —  where  we  always 


A   WORLD   FOR  ME.  201 

meet ! "  Was  not  the  song  singing  itself  along  those  unspoken 
reaches  of  the  spirit,  where  they  were  beginning  to  be  sure  to 
find  each  other1? 

And  yet  France  would  have  shrunk,  still,  from  analyzing  that 
moment,  or  from  explaining  herself  to -herself.  There  was  still 
something  in  her  that  would  have  revolted,  if  she  had  asked 
herself  why  this  last  half-hour  had  been  the  crown  and  fulfil 
ment  of  the  whole  beautiful  day. 

So  she  did  not  ask,  but  drifted  on  in  the  half-light  that  was 
so  rosy,  that  must  be  so  brief. 

It  was  not  far,  after  that,  to  the  Little  Crossing,  —  a  narrow 
neck  in  the  river,  where  a  chain  of  stones  made  foundation  for 
a  bridge,  built  with  single  planks  clamped  down  to  the  rocks, 
and  a  single  hand-rail  running  along  its  upper  side. 

The  best  landing  for  the  boats  was  upon  the  Thumble  shore ; 
Flip's  was  already  d'rawn  up  there,  and  he  and  the  minister  had 
crossed  the  bridge,  making  room  for  the  others  to  follow.  Sarell 
was  over  while  Rael  was  hauling  his  skiff  out  upon  the  gravel ; 
she  was  used  to  foot-bridges  and  dam-crossings ;  then  Rael 
stepped  before  France  upon  the  plankway,  and  turned  to  reach 
his  hand  toward  her.  She  answered  the  motion  by  one  of  her 
own,  just  holding  a  hand  ready,  if  need  were,  to  take  the  help  of 
his.  So,  with  offer  and  acceptance  not  actually  joined,  they 
passed  the  pretty,  rippling  current  between  the  jutting  banks;  an 
old,  bent,  butternut  tree,  leaning  over  from  one  side,  making  a 
shady  cavern  above  the  bridge,  in  which  the  dark  pool  of  water 
lay  shining  with  its  very  blackness.  France  paused,  for  a  sin 
gle  step,  in  the  middle,  and  looked  over  into  it.  As  she  looked 
up,  she  met  Rael's  eyes. 

"  That  is  another  of  the  ten  thousand,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  I  begin  to  think  they  are  all  right  here  in  Fellaiden.  I  think 
if  the  summer  could  last,  I  should  never  want  to  go  away." 

If  Rael  Heybrook  had  answered  that  in  words,  he  would  have 
said  less.  Perhaps,  indeed  most  likely,  for  her  look  went 
swiftly  back  to  the  river,  France  did  not  see  the  flash  in  his 
face.  She  could  not  know  the  quick  leap  of  the  pulse  in  him 
as  he  moved  on  so  staidly  the  few  paces  further,  and  then,  at 
the  steep  little  rough-beaten  ascent  of  the  bank,  leaned  back 


202  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

and  reached  the  hand  again  that  she  put  hers  into  now,  and 
drew  her  with  a  firm  grasp  upward  to  his  side. 

The  minister  bade  them  good-night.  Their  paths  lay  cross- 
fields  now,  and  his  was  a  different  way  from  theirs.  Flip  kept 
on,  helping  with  the  baskets.  Rael  let  him  have  one,  saying, 
"  All  right,  Phil.  I  '11  drive  you  home,  presently." 

Sarell  inarched  steadfastly  in  advance.  Flip  followed.  Still, 
Israel  and  France  were  left  together. 

The  moon  slipped  down  beyond  West  Ridge.  Her  slender 
horn  turned  golden  as  it  dipped  behind  the  line  of  dark  green 
wall.  It  curved  upward,  showing,  before  it  quite  went  down, 
like  the  horn  of  a  great  golden  ox,  lifting  its  head  from  pasture 
in  the  translucent  sky-fields  on  that  further  side. 

They  crossed  the  brook,  presently,  that  ran  below  the  Plea- 
saunce ;  then  they  climbed  the  rounded  slope  of  the  Great 
Mowing,  quite  up  out  of  the  valley-basin. 

The  farm-house  door  was  open,  and  there  were  people  on  the 
porch ;  a  bright  light  was  already  burning  where  they  were  not 
always  used  to  have  lights  in  these  summer  evenings,  —  in  the 
west  parlor. 

Somebody  came  forth  to  meet  France  as  she  crossed  the  door- 
yard  from  the  field  gateway,  and  Rael  turned  up  toward  the 
barns. 

"  My  dear  little  girl !  "  and  Mr.  Everidge  put  his  arm  about 
his  daughter  and  kissed  her.  "  You  did  not  even  get  my  let 
ter,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  papa !  "  exclaimed  France,  tremulous  with  surprise. 
"  I  have  just  got  it,  —  in  my  pocket !  "  And  then,  with  some 
strange  feeling,  she  put  her  arms  quickly  about  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him  again,  breaking  into  little  sobs  and  tears. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  203 


CHAPTER  XX. 

NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

OF  course,  they  said  she  was  tired  and  nervous ;  that  the 
surprise  was  too  much  for  her  ;  that  she  had  had  a  long,  hard 
day,  too  hard  for  the  first  after  such  a  shutting-up  :  and  they 
took  her  in,  and  gave  her  hot  tea  and  cream-toast,  and  some 
beefsteak  off  the  slice  that  had  been  broiled  for  her  father  after 
his  journey,  for  they  were  all  waiting  supper  for  her.  And 
then  Mr.  Everidge  told  her  how  he  had  suddenly  determined 
to  take  a  vacation  of  a  day  or  two,  and  that  Princeton  and  Mag 
nolia  were  both  too  gay  and  dressed-up  to  rest  in,  and  that  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  come  and  look  after  his  little  lame 
child,  and  finally,  that  he  had  news  for  her  that  he  had  chosen 
to  come  and  tell  her  himself,  —  "  good  business  news,"  for  one 
thing  ;  she  was  the  little  daughter  who  had  always,  years  ago, 
in  the  old  days  before  they  were  all  fine,  brought  his  slippers 
and  climbed  on  his  knee,  and  asked  him  "how  bidnits  wad 
to-day  ]  "  and  he  thought  she  had  a  right  to  know.  He  would 
tell  her  all  about  it  to-morrow  ;  but  he  had  been  making  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  she  should  say  how  some  of  it  should 
be  spent. 

He  told  her  all  this  on  the  piazza  after  tea,  when  they  were 
out  there  by  themselves.  He  was  curiously  talkative,  with  his 
gladness  at  getting  her  again,  and  his  good  fortune  that  he  had 
come  to  tell  her  of. 

And  France  sat  close  beside  him,  and  held  his  hand  in  hers, 
and  felt  something  that  she  could  not  understand,  —  of  self- 
reproach,  and  a  kind  of  shame  that  she  was  not  his  "  little  girl" 
any  longer  ;  as  if  she  had  been  daring  to  grow  up  all  at  once, 
she  scarcely  knew  how,  into  a  woman  without  asking  leave. 

She  sat  very  quiet,  and  listened  to  him.     She  did  not  seem 


204  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

eager  to  ask  him  questions.  She  hid  herself  away,  as  it  were, 
in  her  daughterhood,  nestling  by  his  side,  almost  as  if  she  had 
just  been  forgiven  for  something,  and  been  taken  back  there. 

After  she  had  taken  her  candle  and  gone  —  still  just  like  a 
child,  because  he  told  her  it  would  be  better  for  her  —  to  her 
room,  she  set  the  light  down  upon  her  dressing-table,  and  ran 
to  the  low  roof-window,  and  sat  down  upon  the  floor,  leaning 
her  head  upon  her  hands  upon  the  sill,  and  cried  again,  feel 
ing  her  cheeks  hot  under  her  tears,  blazing  hot,  all  the  time. 

She  was  confused,  distressed.  The  coming  of  her  father  had 
suddenly  confronted  all  things  past  with  all  things  present.  She 
felt  herself  in  a  different  relation  to  everything  :  was  it  a  true 
relation  1  or,  where  was  the  truth  1  where  was  the  right  and 
the  glory,  and  where  was  the  shame  1  All  her  training,  all  the 
subtile,  daily  religion  —  for  it  was  a  creed,  a  cult,  a  binding  — 
of  social  life  in  which  she  had  lived,  rose  up  in  judgment  now, 
and  held  her  at  the  bar,  indicted,  if  not  convicted,  of  some 
strange,  half-discerned  trespass ;  and  the  accusation  lay  in  the 
unwhispered  demand,  the  demand  of  his  mere  presence,  "What 
would  her  father  say  1 "  Unwhispered.  She  did  not  ask  her 
self.  What  had  she  precisely  to  ask  herself  about1?  About 
what  should  her  father  say  anything] 

Why  was  she  reminded  with  a  pain,  instead  of  a  pleasure,  of 
the  life  and  place  she  must  go  back  into,  quite  separate  from  this, 
in  which  she  had  had  a  brief  summer-time  of  new  delight  1  Why 
were  there  such  separate  worlds  of  living  in  this  one  world  and 
life  of  human  creatures  1  Why  would  not  her  father  under 
stand  1  Why  would  he  be  amazed,  yes,  disgusted,  if  he  knew  all 
she  had  given  to-day,  of  her  purest  sympathy,  her  highest  esti 
mation,  —  all  the  warmth  with  which  she  had  exulted  in  her 
own  finding  and  claim  as  she  gave  it,  —  to  this  nature  and 
character  of  a  man,  a  young  man,  quite  out  of  her  sphere, 
reared  among  the  plainest,  used  only  to  the  plough  and  the 
hoe,  the  hay-field  and  the  milking-yard  ]  Could  she  not  come 
here  for  a  few  weeks'  country  idling  without  getting —  infatu 
ated!— Faugh! 

Was  it  her  own,  or  her  father's  imagined  disgust  that  made 
her  break  from  her  thought  when  an  actual  word  thrust  itself 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  205 

forth,  like  a  writing  on  the  wall  of  her  consciousness,  a  shape 
formed  suddenly  in  the  chaos  of  her  reflections  1 

Why  was  she  afraid  he  had  come  to  take  her  home  again  ? 
Why  had  she  not  dared  to  ask,  or  given  him  any  chance  to  tell 
her  I  What  was  that  tender  compunction  that  had  made  her 
as  if  she  had  been  disobeying,  or  injuring  him,  secretly? 

Why  could  she  not  be  wholly  glad  of  the  good  success  he 
came  to  tell  her  of,  that  was  going  to  make  their  ways  more 
free  and  splendid,  and  even  more  established  1  Why  did  she 
not  want  to  be  drifted  so  far  that  way  ]  That  money  that  he 
had  been  making  in  some  larger  way  than  usual,  how  could  she 
care  to  say  how  it  should  be  spent  1  As  if  people  could  spend 
money  just  as  they  would  choose  !  as  if  other  people,  whose 
plans  and  hopes  all  depended  on  a  little  money  that  perhaps 
they  could  not  get,  would  let  them  !  Oh,  what  a  tangle  life 
was,  and  she  only  just  beginning  it ! 

Yet,  after  all,  what  had  she  done,  and  what  was  there  wrong 
in  her  ]  and  where  was  going  to  be  the  dreadful  difficulty  1  Had 
not  Miss  Amman  made  friends  and  sympathies  here  1  Did  she 
not  care  for  this  brave  fellow,  Rael,  and  his  plans  1  Was  not 
he,  were  not  all  of  them,  —  Bernard  Kingsworth,  the  minister, 
dear,  good  Mother  Heybrook,  and  Lyman,  with  all  his  boy- 
roughness  and  awkward  wit,  —  her  great  friends  1 

They  were  her  own  great  friends  also.  She  was  thankful  to 
have  made  them.  It  was  grand  here,  among  the  hills,  and  with 
these  fresh,  simple-strong  people.  Why  had  she  been  catechiz 
ing  and  tormenting  herself]  She  would  show  her  father  some 
thing  of  her  new  world,  that  was  more  than  country  air  or 
restful  stillness  or  blank  interval  between  points  of  more  posi 
tive  and  intense  existence. 

She  lifted  her  head.  She  had  been  so  foolish,  tired,  and  ner 
vous.  The  far-away  mountain-sides  and  shadowy  peaks  were 
softly  dark  in  the  still  evening  :  they  reassured  her.  The 
heaven  was  full  of  stars  to  its  depths  of  depth ;  Arcturus  was 
shining,  like  a  king  in  his  own  place,  in  the  mid-altitude  over 
where  the  sun  had  set.  Everything  about  her  was  great,  not 
small ;  everything  was  pure,  not  spoiled ;  the  heaven  and  the 
earth  were  wider  ;  she  had  grown  and  climbed,  not  degenerated 


206  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

and  descended.     She  was  ashamed  of  her  ashamedness ;  what 
had  it  all  been  about  1 

To-morrow,  she  would  take  her  father  into  some  of  this  beau- 
tifulness  :  he  would  be  glad,  he  would  feel  and  receive  it.  He 
should  know  Rael  Heybrook  and  the  rest.  On  Sunday,  he 
would  hear  Mr.  Kingsworth  preach.  They  would  be  standing 
in  the  same  place  then,  they  would  come  to  see  things  to 
gether,  —  she  and  this  good  father,  so  strong  and  wide  in  his 
own  work  and  knowledge,  whom  she  loved  and  was  so  proud  of. 

If  she  could  only  coax  him  into  a  world  like  this,  to  live  there, 
with  the  money  that  he  had  got ! 

And  so  France  went  to  bed,  and  went  to  sleep ;  and  nine 
hours  later,  when  day  was  regal  over  the  great  country-side, 
she  came  forth  out  of  her  chamber  like  a  princess,  and  found 
her  father,  and  led  him  to  that  low  piazza  with  the  magnificent 
outlook,  to  see  the  far-off  river  mists  winding  away  southward 
between  the  steadfast  mountains  and  all  the  rich  farm-lands 
lying  smiling,  up  and  down  on  the  hill-bosoms,  in  the  morning 
sun. 

It  was  out  here,  while  they  waited  for  breakfast,  that  he  told 
her  his  other  news. 

Euphemia  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Sampson  Kay- 
nard.  He  had  been  at  Magnolia,  where  Euphemia  had  joined 
Helen  and  the  Uppertons,  and  been  with  them  for  the  past  month ; 
and  now  he  had  gone  with  her  and  Helen  to  their  mother 
at  Princeton.  Her  mother  was  pleased ;  everybody  said  it  was 
a  fine  match.  Kaynard  was  good-natured  and  rich,  he  was  of 
good  family,  there  was  nothing  against  him.  —  "  Only,"  France 
thought,  "  that  they  called  him  '  Samp.  Kaynard,'  and  he  was 
sampy  !" —  He  was  one  of  those  men  yon  were  rather  tired  of  see 
ing  about  in  society;  but  now  he  would  settle  and  have  a  home, 
he  would  show  better.  Mr.  Everidge  had  no  objection ;  Eu 
phemia  was  suited.  He  would  as  lief  there  were  a  little  more 
of  "  Nature's  nobleman  "  about  the  fellow ;  but  as  men  go,  he 
was  better  than  the  ordinary. 

There  was  a  little  emphasis  upon  Euphemia's  name  :  she  was 
not  the  nearest  in  sympathy  to  her  father ;  she  was  not  France. 

This  marriage  was  great  news.     It  would  make  much  to  be 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  207 

new  and  different.  This  and  the  good  fortune  —  had  they  any 
latent  connection,  France  wondered  ?  —  that  her  father  spoke 
of  so  differently  from  that  of  any  mere  good  voyage  or  rise  in 
merchandise  that  had  often  given  him  prosperous  seasons 
before. 

Why  did  it  not  trouble  her,  as  things  did  last  night?  Why 
was  the  string,  that  had  vibrated  so  painfully  then,  less  tense 
this  morning? 

It  was  morning,  that  was-  nearly  enough.  And  all  this  gran 
deur  of  God's  making,  so  far  beyond  the  playhouse  grandeur 
of  cities,  was  about  them,  visible  again.  Her  father's  words, 
too,  that  "  Euphemia  was  suited,"  and  of  the  "  Nature's  noble 
man  "  that  he  could  wish  his  son  to  be,  —  this  father  to  whom 
his  daughters  must  bring  him  sons,  since  he  had  never  had  son 
born  to  himself,  —  something  in  these  seemed  to  free  and 
justify  the  girl  again,  upon  her  higher  degree  and  with  her 
larger,  new-found  standards. 

At  the  very  moment  that  she  was  listening  to  what  he  said 
about  this  "well  enough"  Mr.  Sampson  Kaynard,  Israel  Hey- 
brook,  in  his  white  shirt-sleeves,  and  with  his  proud,  firm  step  and 
his  uplifted  forehead,  passed  below  them  across  the  field  that 
was  but  a  little  bit  of  his  free  estate.  Free,  because  the  power 
and  intent  were  in  him  to  make  and  keep  it  so.  Real  estate 
indeed ;  not  the  kind,  in  prospective  city  lots  or  outlying 
suburbs,  which  cramps  men  in  a  poverty  of  heavy  tax  and 
delusive  expectation ;  but  real  and  rich  with  all  the  earth  holds 
in  it  for  him  who  can  truly  subdue  it ;  splendid  and  satisfying 
with  what  men  expend  hard-won  fortunes  to  get  a  little  piece 
and  miniature  of,  in  some  place  where  they  can  hold  it  joined 
to  the  artificial  living  and  open  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  people 
who  value  earth  by  the  foot,  and  the  outspread  and  adornment 
of  it  by  what  costly  gardeners  and  professional  beautifiers  can 
do  to  tame  it  down. 

Something  that  was  not  hers  at  all,  —  that  she  knew  herself, 
as  well  as  she  had  known  last  night,  most  separated  from  by 
all  that  might  seem  to  be  hers,  —  made  France  feel  proud,  that 
moment. 

It  was  morning  again  with  her ;  and  the  day  was  full  of  sun- 


208  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

shine,  —  sunshine  that  no  one  could  shut  away  into  any  one 
little  measured  place,  or  keep  from  her. 

It  was  later  in  the  day,  after  breakfast,  and  a  walk  with  the 
young  men  over  to  the  Gilley  place,  whence  Mr.  Everidge  re 
turned  in  a  fine  humor  of  enjoyment,  entering  keenly  into  the 
speculative  advantages  of  the  purchase  and  the  plans  concern 
ing  it,  and  greatly  praising  Miss  Ammah's  shrewdness  —  the 
last  quality  that  had  entered  into  her  motive,  on  her  own  part,  in 
the  transaction  —  and  the  practical  capacity  and  good  sense  of 
"  that  young  farmer,"  that  they  came  round,  by  natural  con 
nection,  to  other  enterprises,  and  the  fuller  explanation  of  what 
Mr.  Everidge  had  himself  been  doing. 

First,  however,  Miss  Amman  had  put  in  her  protest. 

"  I  hate  shrewdness,"  she  said  uncompromisingly.  "  It 's  per 
verted  wisdom.  It 's  brawling  for  one's  self  in  the  world's  mix. 
It 's  an  ill  thing,  and  close  to  cursing.  Look  in  your  Webster 
for  that.  I  did  n't  buy  Gilley's  for  shrewdness.  I  bought  it 
for  what  it  just  is,  one  of  the  loveliest  bits  of  the  rind  of  this 
earth.  And  I  mean  to  have  it  kept  so.  But  now,  friend 
Everidge,  we  '11  have  thy  wisdom,  and  not  call  it  shrewdness. 
You  were  going  to  tell  us  what  you  have  been  doing  in  that 
mix  of  things  down  below,  where  you  usually  come  uppermost, 
You  have  been  'diving  deeper,  and  coming  out  drier,'  than 
common,  eh  1 " 

And  Miss  Amman  drew  out  her  yarn  comfortably,  starting 
afresh  on  a  long  row.  She  looked  sharply,  though,  at  Mr. 
Everidge,  as  she  put  her  demand. 

The  merchant  laughed ;  he  was  used  to  her  tirades,  and  he 
was  honest ;  so  he  meant  and  thought.  He  did  not  much 
mind  her  hurling  Webster  at  his  head,  for  his  "  shrewdness." 
Yet  he  felt  what  he  had  to  say  coming  into  a  curious  light, 
beginning  to  say  it  just  after  that. 

"I've  been  making  a  dip  into  those  silver  mines;  and  I 
have  come  out  electro-plated.  That 's  all." 

Mr.  Everidge  shook  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  over  the  piazza 
railing,  and  laughed,  slightly,  again.  France,  searching  for  a 
nice,  imperceptible  grade  of  color  among  her  violet  wools,  left 
off  her  comparisons,  and  lifted  up  her  head. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  209 

"  Money  does  stick  to  some  people,"  remarked  Miss  Tredgold. 
"  Are  you  sure  you  are  out  1 " 

"0,  yes  !  That  is  precisely  the  thing  one  must  be  sure  of. 
It's  like  those  intensely  cold  mineral  springs  you  bathe  in, 
down  there  in  Pennsylvania.  It 's  in,  and  right  out  again.  If 
you  do  it  just  right,  you  're  a  made-over  man,  twice  as  alive 
as  you  were  before.  But  if  you  stay  a  minute  too  long,  you 
might  n't  ever  come  out  alive  at  all." 

Both  the  women  had  stopped  all  pretence  of  work,  and  were 
looking  at  him  now. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  "  if  the  prophet  of  Kho- 
rassan  was  n't  electro-plated.  His  last  dip  finished  him,  you 
know." 

"  Should  n't  have  taken  it,"  said  Mr.  Everidge  concisely. 

"  Then  what  did  he  leave  the  tub  standing  there,  for1?  You 
don't  talk  quite  as  you  ever  talked  about  business  before,"  said 
Miss  Ammah. 

"  No.  This  is  n't  business.  It 's  a  thing  that  happens  once 
in  a  man's  lifetime." 

"  How  much  has  happened  to  you  ?  How  much  are  you 
made  over?"  Miss  Ammah  asked  bluntly.  She  never  used 
much  ceremony  ;  and  she  had  known  Mr.  Everidge,  in  her 
straightforward  way,  for  more  than  thirty  years. 

"Just  how  much  have  I  made,  you  mean.  Well,  you're  a 
confidante,  my  wife  trusts  you  when  she  turns  her  dresses :  I 
had  in  about  twelve  thousand,  and  it  came  out  multiplied  by 
fifteen." 

"  Papa  ! "  cried  France  ;  and  the  wools  fell  mingled  again  in 
her  lap.  That  was  an  announcement !  Miss  Ammah  looked 
just  as  equipoised  as  ever.  She  waited  long  enough  to  give 
point  and  seeming  to  her  next  sentence. 

"  George  Everidge,"  she  said,  then,  in  her  calmest  tones,  "  / 
want  a  dip." 

"Better  not,"  he  replied  to  her.  "Better  let  well  enough 
alone." 

"  Why  should  n't  I  be  electro-plated  ? " 

"  Because  you  might  get  your  skin  taken  off,  instead." 

"Oh!" 

14 


ODD,   OK  EVEN? 

Miss  Ammah  let  that  syllable  and  tone  continue  isolated  an 
instant ;  then  she  said,  "  I  hope  you  're  going  round,  now,  to 
tell  all  the  women  and  fools  not  to  jump  into  that  tub  that 
you  've  left  standing.  Because  it 's  what  some  of  them  will 
be  sure  to  do  when  they  see  you  shine  so." 

"  Is  it  best  to  tell  women  and  fools  not  to  do  a  thing  1 "  asked 
Mr.  Everidge,  laughing. 

"  Papa,"  said  France,  coming  round  to  the  red  settee  at  her 
father's  side,  "  please  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  don't  understand 
about  '  dips.'  How  could  you  make  all  that  money  so  quickly  ] 
I  thought  mining  was  slow  work." 

"  So  it  is  if  you  dig  and  smelt.  But  the  rise  in  stocks  antici 
pates.  The  bonanza  was  there,  sure  enough.  As  soon  as  you 
know  that,  the  money  is  there.  Then,  you  see,  it  would  bear 
more  shares,  and  we  who  knew  first  had  the  first  chance  to  buy 
in.  It  was  all  real,"  he  answered  to  the  look  in  her  face,  "  solid 
and  sure.  Then  the  premiums  ran  up.  I  sold  on  the  first 
rush  ;  I  got  what  my  shares  were  worth.  That 's  what  we  call 
'  realizing.'  " 

"  I  should  think  the  realizing  would  have  to  come  after 
ward.  Why  did  n't  you  stay  in,  and  get  your  pay  out  of  the 
mine  1  It  might  have  been  more  ;  and  why  would  n't  it  have 
been  safer  ]  I  think  if  I  had  part  of  a  silver  mine  I  should 
rather  keep  it.  You  always  say  it  is  so  hard  to  know  where  to 
invest." 

"  It  would  be  safer,  Fran',  if  you  could  control.  Safer,  and 
pretty  slow.  But  you  see,  apart  from  interest,  an  honest  man 
would  rather  sell  what  he  knew  in  his  conscience  he  had  to  sell. 
Mining  is  queer  work,  and  stocks  are  paper.  It  is  so  easy  to 
make  more  paper  when  the  name  is  up  ;  and  by  and  by,  maybe, 
receipts  won't  cover,  or  there  comes  a  stop.  The  sure  way  to 
make  money  out  of  a  mine  is  to  make  it  out  of  the  first  fact  of 
a  mine." 

"  But  it  goes  on,"  said  France,  "  all  that  paper-making.  Your 
selling  out  does  n't  stop  it.  And  somebody,  one  of  these  days, 
when  your  shares  get  down  to  them,  —  or  what  your  shares  are 
cut  up  into,  —  will  get  what  isn't  worth  anything1?" 

"  If  they  don't  look  out  they  may.     People  should  inform 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  211 

themselves.  The  mine  is  there.  It  is  not  a  fable.  But  if 
the  boat  won't  float  more  than  twenty  men,  the  twenty-first 
should  n't  jump  aboard." 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  was  done  in  the  right  way,"  said 
France. 

"Few  things  are  from  beginning  to  end,"  said  her  father, 
"  that 's  why  the  beginnings  are  best.  But  you  can't  under 
stand  all  about  '  bidnits,'  little  girl !  Your  part  comes  in  after 
ward.  You  won't  be  upset  by  it,  I  can  see  ;  therefore,  I  shall 
think  the  more  of  your  voice  in  council.  There  are  plans  in 
the  family  already.  What  would  you  think  of  a  house  in  tovui 
for  the  winter1?" 

France  drew  a  long  breath  as  if  brought  back  from  somewhere. 
In  truth  she  was  not  in  any  way  so  overwhelmed  with  the  pros 
perity  as  a  woman  of  older  or  more  chequered  experience  would 
have  been.  She  had  always  had  everything ;  she  was  used  to 
knowing  that  her  father  had  made  money,  —  ten,  twenty  thou 
sand,  more  sometimes,  in  a  year.  That  he  should  have  made  a 
hundred  and  sixty-eight  thousand  in  a  month  or  two  was 
merely  a  relative  matter.  The  difference  made  even  less  rela 
tive  impression.  If  Mr.  Everidge  had  "  realized,"  his  daughter 
scarcely  had.  There  were  other  things,  —  principles  and  remote 
bearing,  —  more  or  less  vaguely  presenting  themselves  to  her 
mind. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  gravely  pressing  to  her  cheek  the  hand  that 
had  come  around  her  neck  and  laid  itself  upon  her  shoulder, 
"  if  ever  I  should  want  to  spend  some  of  this  very  money  for 
you,  will  you  promise  to  let  me  do  it  1 " 

"You  shall  have  your  share,"  he  said  fondly,  "and  some  day 
you  shall  spend  it  for  yourself." 

Miss  Amman  had  rolled  up  the  big  afghan  that  she  was 
crocheting  together.  She  had  risen  now,  and  was  walking 
toward  the  house-door  in  the  angle. 

"  0  !  "  she  said,  turning  back  to  Mr.  Everidge,  "  I  had  for 
gotten  to  congratulate  you  ! " 

Which  queer  congratulation,  if  it  were  that,  the  gentleman 
received .  with  the  amusement  Miss  Amman  Tredgold  usually 
excited  in  him. 


212 


ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 


They  did  not  see  Bernard  Kingsworth  that  day.  He  was  at 
home,  writing  his  sermon. 

In  the  afternoon  Flip  Merriweather  came,  spontaneously,  and 
took  Mr.  Everidge  off  with  him  to  his  skiff  and  the  creek,  to 
show  him  the  trout  pools  under  Thumble. 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SEEMON.          213 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

SUNDAY,  AND  A   SERMON. 

THERE  is  never  any  Sunday  in  a  novel  proper.  The  seventh 
stitch  is  dropped,  and  the  thread  catches  directly  over  from  Sat 
urday  night  to  Monday  morning.  Stories  are  purely  secular. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  inside  that  determines  or  affects  them. 

I  have  given  you  a  bit  of  one  Sunday,  and  of  what  it  con 
tributed  to  the  essential  history  underneath  the  narrative  with 
France  Everidge  and  the  rest ;  and  now  Mr.  Everidge,  her 
father,  having  come  up  here  to  Fellaiden  expressly  for  a  mer 
chant's  holiday,  of  which  the  Sunday  is  the  centre,  I  am  not 
going  to  skip  it,  but  shall  tell  you  of  the  day,  and  of  Bernard 
Kingsworth's  word  for  the  day. 

The  conclusion  of  the  syllogism  is,  that  this  is  no  novel. 
Herein  I  anticipate  the  critics.  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  it 
is  Sunday,  and  that  there  is  going  to  be  preaching  to-day,  as 
the  railroads  put  up  their  crossing-boards  and  bid  you  beware 
of  the  engine  while  the  bell  rings. 

The  bell  was  ringing  from  the  little  white  belfry,  of  no  par 
ticular  architecture,  under  the  northern  crest  of  Fellaiden  Hill. 
The  sound  had  to  surge  up  and  ripple  over ;  then  it  floated 
down  and  ran  into  the  valley  and  all  along  the  quiet  slope,  where 
the  grain-fields  lay  shining  with  mute  praise,  and  the  unyoked 
oxen  grazed  in  the  still  pastures,  and  the  farmhouses  and  barns 
had  a  placid  hush  upon  them  ;  men  were  resting,  or  giving 
themselves  the  more  ample  refreshing  of  Sabbath  ablutions  and 
fair,  clean  linen ;  the  women  were  doing  the  needful  work  of 
the  day's  mere  existence  with  a  leisurely  touch  that  was  in 
itself  a  rest  from  the  drive  and  energy  of  the  purposeful  week 
that  must  begin  again  to-morrow ;  the  children  were  in  their 
best  little  jackets  and  frocks  and  shoes,  with  here  and  there  a 


214  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

frill  or  a  ribbon  bespeaking  the  blessed  holiday,  different  and 
safer  from  soil  than  school-days ;  the  very  hens  walked  about 
more  sedately,  and  as  if  there  were  less  upon  their  minds  con 
cerning  even  the  laying  of  their  Sunday  eggs. 

You  cannot  leave  the  Sunday  out  of  the  country  !  It  seems 
there  as  if  it  would  come  round,  though  men  did  not  keep  it. 
Everything  hushes  down  ;  it  is  different  from  the  very  dawning. 

Mr.  Everidge  had  found  himself  in  no  such  quietness  for  a 
dozen  years.  He  had  spent  Sundays  at  watering-places  with  his 
family  :  things  were  dropped  off  there  that  made  a  faint  compara 
tive  change  ;  the  bowling-alleys  were  let  alone,  and  there  was  no 
croquet  or  tennis  or  dance  in  the  evening  ;  but  all  day  long  there 
were  the  toilets  and  the  promenades,  and  the  newspapers  and  the 
talk  of  the  men  and  the  smoking  in  the  reading-rooms,  and  the 
same  clatter  and  serving  of  prolonged  meals,  and  perhaps  even 
more  driving  up  and  away  of  carriages  and  consequent  work  and 
hurry  at  the  stables.  Here  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  lifted  off 
the  busy  planet  and  set  in  some  asideness,  where  the  whirl  of  it 
had  gone  away  from  under  his  feet  and  left  him  in  a  fair  mirage 
only  of  its  serenest  pictures. 

It  seemed  quite  mid-day,  after  the  long,  beautiful  morning, 
when  the  wagon  came  to  the  door  for  the  church  party.  It 
was  the  big  double  wagon,  with  the  two  horses.  Mrs.  Hey- 
brook  and  Sarell  were  both  going ;  the  afternoon  tea-dinner  was 
all  prepared  for ;  and  the  three  visitors,  it  was  taken  for  granted, 
were  going  too. 

Mr.  Everidge  had  never  been  to  church  in  a  three-seated, 
open  country  wagon.  There  was  something  queer  about  it, 
something  incongruous  in  his  scrupulous,  stylish,  town  street- 
suit  and  his  high  hat ;  he  felt  curiously  like  something  driven 
about  in  a  show ;  he  was  really  a  strange  species  here.  The 
women  were  less  so  :  a  man's  elegance,  when  you  separate  it 
from  its  like,  is  something  a  great  deal  more  pronounced  than  a 
woman's.  A  woman  may  be  loud,  tawdry ;  then  she  is  not  ele 
gant.  But  men  have  certainly  reserved  to  themselves,  in  their 
apparent  relinquishment  as  to  forms  and  colors,  a  severe  dis 
tinction,  which  makes  their  dress  or  undress  a  most  conspicuous 
matter  in  the  case  of  a  sole  example. 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.  215 

There  was  nobody  at  all  like  Mr.  Everidge  on  the  way,  or 
around  the  church  doors,  where  masculine  Fellaiden  was  con 
gregated  at  the  moment  of  their  arrival.  It  was  worse  yet,  in 
the  square  little  interior,  as  he  walked,  expressly  tall,  up  the 
middle  aisle-way.  He  was  used  to  a  place  of  worship  where 
there  were  stately,  high-backed  pews ;  a  gentleman  passed  in  in 
a  quiet  shadow,  and  a  woman's  silk  trailed,  out  of  sight  and 
noiseless,  upon  the  soft,  thick  carpet.  Here,  all  was  in  a  broad 
light ;  and  the  white-painted  wainscots,  with  their  red-stained 
top  rails,  seemed  hardly  higher  than  his  knees.  His  very  hat, 
again,  was  obtrusive,  as  he  carried  it  in  his  hand.  Really,  he 
was  glad  to  be  seated,  with  a  hedge-row  of  shawls  and  bonnets 
in  front  and  rear. 

When  a  door  opened,  however,  beside  the  slightly  elevated 
platform,  which,  with  its  plain  arm-chair  and  reading-table,  con 
stituted  the  pulpit,  and  Bernard  Kingsworth  walked  in  to  his 
place,  where  he  stood  a  moment  with  bowed  head  behind  the 
desk,  as  if  entered  into  the  Presence  that  is  always  with  the 
simplest  two  or  three  that  may  gather  together  in  the  One 
Name  —  Mr.  Everidge  ceased  to  feel  that  he  was  uncomfortably 
the  only  "  gentleman,"  technically  speaking,  in  the  place. 

When,  after  the  quaint  and  somewhat  vociferous  singing, 
the  reading  of  a  Gospel  chapter,  and  the  utterance  of  a  brief 
prayer — in  which  the  chief  element  seemed  to  be  a  consciousness 
that  the  Being  addressed  needed  not  to  be  told  anything,  but 
that  the  man  who  prayed,  and  his  people,  needed  to  be  told 
everything,  and  that  they  had  come  there  to  listen  to  Him 
who  had  given  his  Word,  and  promised  the  teaching  of  his 
Spirit  —  the  sermon  was  begun,  there  was  but  one  thing  to  be 
thought  of  in  that  little  breezy,  day-lighted  meeting-house. 
Everybody,  unless  the  little  children,  forgot  himself  and  his 
neighbor,  as  to  bodily  presence ;  compelled,  by  the  keen  pre 
sentment  of  more  live  relations,  to  apprehend  himself  and  his 
neighbor  in  the  regard  of  a  certain  inevitable,  everlasting  unity 
and  identity. 

"  Jesus  himself  stood  in  the  midst  of  them."  That  was  the 
text. 

When  Solomon  dedicated  the  Great  Temple,  the  preacher 


216  ODD,  OB  EVEN? 

said,  we  hear  that  "  the  king  hallowed  the  middle  court."  There 
he  offered  his  great  sacrifices,  his  burnt  offerings  and  his  peace 
offerings;  because  the  mere  symbolical  "brazen  altar  before 
the  Lord  was  too  little  to  receive  them." 

It  has  always  been  the  middle  place  that  the  Lord  has  made 
holy  ;  not  anything  outside,  or  above,  or  separate.  "  The 
tabernacle  was  in  the  midst  of  the  camp,"  and  "  The  Lord  God 
walked  in  the  midst  of  the  camp."  "The  Tree  of  Life  was  in 
the  midst  of  the  garden,"  and  in  the  City  of  God,  watered 
by  the  glad-making  streams  of  the  crystal  river,  He  Himself  "  is 
in  the  midst  of  her,  that  she  shall  not  be  moved."  When  the 
Lord  would  signify  the  greatest,  He  "  set  a  little  child  in  the 
midst  of  them";  and  "in  the  midst  of  the  throne,  and  of 
the  living  creatures,  and  of  the  elders,  is  the  Lamb  as  it  had 
been  slain." 

The  Story  of  the  Scriptures  is  full  of  his  declarations  :  "  I 
will  dwell  in  the  midst  of  Israel "  —  "  The  Lord  is  in  the  midst 
of  Thee  "  —  "  This  is  Jerusalem  ;  I  have  set  it  in  the  midst  of 
the  nations  and  countries,"  and  "  I  will  be  the  Glory  in  the 
midst  of  Her." 

Samaria  is  in  the  midst,  —  Samaria,  with  her  sins  and  her 
idolatries ;  and  the  Lord  "  must  needs  go  through  Samaria." 
And  when  at  last  He  gave  his  mortal  life,  as  a  sign  of  the 
everlasting  life  that  He  evermore  giveth  for  the  life  of  the 
world,  it  was  in  the  midst  that  He  was  crucified,  between 
the  thieves. 

My  friends,  it  is  a  necessity  of  all  life  that  it  should  be  "  in 
the  midst."  We  are  none  of  us  above  or  below,  absolutely ;  it 
is  a  law  that  we  must  needs  all  be  between. 

I  can  only  suggest  to  you,  here  and  there,  points  where  it  is 
evidently  so.  The  entire  correlations  of  humanity  are  the  in 
numerable  fibres  and  intermovements  of  a  body  of  life  which  is 
in  truth  the  Body  of  God's  Life ;  and  in  that  infinite  and  be 
yond  our  tracing. 

But  first,  we  are  between  in  our  daily  business  and  calling. 
I  am  between ;  you  are  between ;  every  man  who  handles,  to 
make  use  of,  or  to  pass  on,  anything  that  the  Lord  creates,  or 
any  force  He  puts  where  we  can  touch  it  to  move  it  —  there- 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.  217 

fore,  every  farmer,  artisan,  tradesman,  mechanic  —  is  a  power 
and  a  will  between  some  cause  and  effect,  some  giving  and  re 
ceiving.  He  is  "  God's  minister,  attending  continually  on  this 
very  thing." 

I  suppose  you  see  at  once  how  a  man  who  stands  in  a  pulpit, 
who  handles  the  Truth  of  God,  and  breaks  the  bread  of  the 
Lord's  giving  to  the  disciples,  is  a  "  minister."  You  call  him 
so,  and  rightly ;  he  should  stand  between  Christ  himself  and 
the  Christian  Church,  to  receive  and  to  give  continually.  But 
you,  also,  who  till  God's  ground,  and  take  from  his  hand  what 
He  gives  through  his  life  that  is  in  the  earth  and  the  waters 
and  the  sunlight,  are  you  not  ministers,  —  high  priests  at  a 
grand,  beautiful  Altar,  which  you  dare  not  profane  ] 

You  take  at  first  hand  from  the  Maker.  Through  you,  He 
provides  the  daily  bread  all  the  world  is  daily  praying  and  cry 
ing  for.  He  makes  them  to  sit  down  in  their  places,  by  the 
fifties,  by  the  hundreds,  by  the  hundred  thousands,  and  to  you 
He  divides  that  which  is  to  feed  them.  He  multiplies,  not 
you  :  you  only  serve.  It  is  high  service,  though ;  you  are  be 
tween  the  great,  rich,  abounding,  God-alive  earth  and  the  hun 
ger  of  the  children.  Yours  is  the  first  calling,  without  which 
the  others  could  not  be.  Will  you  work  like  the  angels,  — 
doing  the  Will  that  is  done  in  heaven  ]  or,  forgetting  that  Will 
and  thinking  only  what  is  to  remain  to  yourselves,  will  you  do 
self-will,  which  is  devil's  will  1 

If  you  hold  back,  in  time  of  scarcity,  what  the  Lord's  summer 
has  ripened  and  yon  are  ready  to  sell,  if  you  mix  bad  with 
good,  old  with  new,  if  you  strain  weight  or  measure  to  make  it 
cover  more  than  honest  money's  worth,  —  then  you  do  devil's 
will ;  every  man  knows  that.  But  there  is  even  a  greater 
righteousness  than  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees'  —  the  righteous 
ness  that  has  for  its  motive  such  love  for  the  neighbor,  such 
joy  in  producing  all  that  the  wisest  skill  and  patientest  labor 
can  produce  for  the  waiting  want,  that  this  love  and  joy  be 
come,  to  whosoever  has  them,  his  life  and  delight  in  doing ;  not 
the  desire  and  pleasure,  foremostly,  of  his  own,  and  what  he 
can  gather  up  to  himself  in  return  for  it.  Is  this  a  hard  say 
ing  1  Can  you  not  yet  hear  it  ?  It  is  what  the  Lord  means  for 


218  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

you  by  putting  ycm  here  among  his  hills  and  beside  his  streams. 
It  is  what  He  who  gives  his  own  flesh  for  bread  means  by  tell 
ing  you  that  you  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone ;  that  the  flesh 
profiteth  nothing ;  that  the  word  which  proceedeth  out  of  the 
mouth  of  God,  that  a  man  shall  live  by ;  the  words  of  the 
Christ  that  He  speaks  unto  you,  they  are  spirit,  and  they  are 
life. 

You  are  not  all  farmers,  though  ;  you  are  men  of  trades, 
some  of  you,  and  some  of  you  men  of  trade.  You  do  work  for 
your  neighbor ;  in  his  house,  for  hia  clothing,  in  tools  for  his 
use ;  you  buy  for  him  what  he  has  not  time  to  go  and  buy  for 
himself —  this  man  who  is  getting  all  your  bread  out  of  the  live 
ground  —  and  what  he  does  not  know  how  to  buy.  You  must 
have  his  bread  for  your  service,  or  something  from  him  that 
will  entitle  you  to  what  you  want  from  your  other  neighbor. 
But  will  you  think  most  of  good  service  or  of  great  receipt  ? 
Will  you  buy  cheapest  and  then  sell  dearest,  or  will  you  give 
your  friend  the  benefit  you  pretend  to  give  him,  when  you  set 
yourself  up  in  your  occupation  of  attending  to  that  which  he  can 
not  attend  to  himself]  Will  you  do  your  best  for  your  neighbor, 
or  will  you  do  your  best  for  yourself,  and  let  your  neighbor  look 
out  sharp  for  his  own  part,  if  he  does  not  want  to  be  cheated  7 

The  work  of  the  world  widens  out  into  great  things ;  things 
that  make  great  stir  and  show  upon  the  earth ;  great  running 
hither  and  thither,  wonderful  contrivance  to  run  quickly  and 
fetch  largely.  Great  fleets  of  ships  are  upon  the  waters ;  and 
the  men  who  build  and  sail  them,  that  the  remotest  askings 
and  supplies  may  be  brought  together,  that  human  life  may 
be  made  fairer  and  richer  by  all  that  the  whole  planet  holds  for 
any  human  being  —  they  are  men  of  noble  calling. 

Our  Lord  Jesus  passed  his  whole  life  in  one  small  region ;  He 
only  went  once  to  the  great  sea-coasts  of  Tyre  and  Sidou ;  and 
then  He  did  not  go  to  wonder  at,  or  praise,  the  ships  that  went 
down  upon  the  mighty  deep,  or  the  merchant  enterprise  of  the 
cities ;  but  only,  so  far  as  we  know,  to  heal  the  daughter  of 
the  woman  who  was  not  of  Israel.  Yet  He  who  ever  "  stood  in 
the  midst "  touched  and  illustrated  all  the  springs  and  methods 
of  life.  He  loved  the  little  ships  that  went  out  upon  Gennes- 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.          219 

saret :  they  were  as  true  types  as  the  great  Phoenician  vessels 
that  sailed  to  far-off  Tarshish.  He  often  entered  into  them,  to 
pass  over  from  side  to  side,  or  to  speak  the  word  from  the  still 
ness  of  the  waters.  And  when  He  "  entered  into  a  ship,  his 
disciples  followed  him."  We  read  that  continually.  I  wonder 
what  a  ship  stood  for,  to  the  thought  of  Jesus  ?  A  thing  with 
white  sails  set  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  moving  by  that  invisible 
power  over  the  other  element  upon  which  man  may  not  move 
by  his  own  natural  forces,  with  an  errand  in  its  going,  always,  — 
what  is  it  but  a  will,  set  to  the  breath  of  a  divine  sending, 
moving  by  that  breath  when  it  might  not  move  without  it,  and 
doing  a  commissioned  errand  ]  When  Christ  entered  into  a 
ship,  He  entered  into  some  purpose  of  His  Father's.  And  I 
think  He  did  it  so  often,  to  teach  that  all  the  errands  of  the 
earth  should  be  the  errands  of  God's  will. 

Do  the  merchants  build  and  sail  their  ships  so  1  Do  they 
enter  into  this  highest  joy,  this  depth  of  the  reach,  of  their 
calling  1  I  cannot  say ;  but  I  can  see  how  it  should  be,  and 
how  blessedly  it  would  be,  in  all  the  wonderful  ways  given  unto 
men  to  work  in,  if  they  "  knew  the  time  of  their  visitation  " 
and  "  the  things  that  belong  to  their  peace,"  and  did  not  let 
them  be  "  hid  from  their  eyes." 

And  so  with  all  the  making  and  transporting  and  interchange 
of  the  whole  world ;  from  the  digging  in  mines  to  the  coining 
into  money ;  from  the  planting  of  the  cotton-seed  to  the  weav 
ing  and  stitching ;  from  the  study  of  the  physical  powers  and 
the  adaptation  of  machinery,  to  the  landing  at  each  man's  door 
of  whatever  men  want  in  their  homes  for  use  and  beauty,  — 
all  is  divine  ;  each  servitor  stands  as  a  priest  in  his  place,  to 
minister  between  the  last  and  the  next,  in  the  "order  of  Mel- 
chizedek." 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  false  service  that  seeks  to  stop 
or  to  gather  back  the  ministration  unto  self]  It  is  a  break 
and  a  confusion  ;  it  was  never  meant ;  there  is  no  act  of  it  that 
does  not  frustrate  some  beneficence ;  it  stands  between  to  curse, 
to  hinder,  to  starve ;  it  has  to  do  with  all  the  misery  and  the 
disorder  and  the  sin  that  it  tries,  with  its  own  hedging  of  law 
and  luxury,  to  put  out  of  sight.  No  man  stands  between  to 


220  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

take,  as  the  gift  passes  on,  regardless  of  what  remains  for  the 
next  taker,  or  the  hundredth  after,  who  does  not  take  the 
children's  bread  and  cast  it  to  the  dogs  of  his  own  covetous 
desires.  No  man  receives  an  extortion,  no  man  makes  money 
by  a  fancy  price,  no  man  shuffles  a  thing  quickly  through  his 
fingers,  because  it  is  sure  to  burn  somebody's  fingers  on  its  way, 
who  does  not  traffic  in  infernal  fire. 

What  shall  we  say,  sometimes,  of  a  standing  between  that 
seems  to  us  a  noble  interference  1  An  interference  between  some 
unjust  purpose  and  its  fulfilment1?  A  taking  into  our  hands, 
perhaps,  of  some  clever  countermoving,  whereby  we  may  pre 
vent  or  recompense  a  wrong  1 

Take  care,  lest  we  cast  out  evil  by  anything  of  Beelzebub. 
Take  care,  lest  our  love  of  triumph,  of  our  own  cleverness,  our 
hate  of  the  sinner  that  we  call  hate  of  the  sin,  move  us  to  for 
get  that  the  best  place,  the  real  place,  the  first  place  to  be  tried 
is  between  the  tempted  soul  and  his  Satan,  not  between  the 
evil  conception  after  it  has  taken  form,  and  the  mere  outside 
event  that  we  would  frustrate.  What  if  we  would  not  rather 
the  evil  should  be  in  that  soul,  than  that  we  should  not  have  it 
to  frustrate  ] 

What  shall  we  say,  again,  of  those  passive  standings  between, 
in  which  self  is  but  a  waiter  on  what  it  may  blaspheme  as 
"  Providence  "  1  What  of  watchings,  of  calculations,  of  evil 
wishes  against  others,  that  thereby  something  we  think  good 
may  come  to  ourselves1?  Of  the  mere  "  What  if  it  should  hap 
pen  ?"  that  we  let  the  thought  of  into  our  minds  to  dwell  there, 
the  thought  of  failure,  disgrace,  death,  that  may  befall  some 
where,  and  in  consequence  of  which  we  may  take  the  chance,  the 
vacant  place,  the  goods  left  for  next  ownership  on  the  hither 
brink  of  a  grave  1  What  of  a  man's  nature  come  between  in 
such  case,  and  between  what  and  what  does  it  stand1?  Do 
we  always  know? 

Brothers,  sisters,  we  are  not  merely  fleshly  men  and  women ; 
we  are  spirits.  We  do  not  know  what  we  handle  when  we  aim 
and  fix  our  secret  thoughts,  our  wishes,  our  expectations.  I 
have  stood  beside  an  apple-tree,  and  willed  an  apple  to  fall 
down.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  connection ;  I  can  only  tell  you 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.  221 

the  fact ;  but  the  apple  fell  while  I  stood  there.  Do  not  stand 
wishing,  waiting,  for  that  which  may  happen  to  a  fellow-crea 
ture,  or  in  his  life.  You  do  not  know  what  power  you  may  have 
hold  of,  or  how  your  secret  sin  may  work  for  you,  making  you 
guilty  of  the  event. 

Our  first  accountability  is  deeper  than  issue  or  act ;  it  is 
away  back  in  our  very  selves,  and  what  we  give  ourselves  to, 
there.  "  We  wrestle  not  against  flesh  and  blood,  but  against 
principalities  and  powers  ;  against  spiritual  wickedness  in  high 
places,"  the  high,  incorporeal  places  of  our  own  being,  and  the 
substantial,  inward  world  with  which  we  make  ourselves  related. 
We  may  be  between  celestial  forces  and  the  work  of  heaven,  or 
between  satanic  forces  and  the  work  of  hell.  The  field  is  the 
world ;  the  evil  seed  is  the  planting  of  the  Evil  One.  Again, 
the  field  is  the  world ;  and  there  is  fair,  sweet,  true  harvest  in 
it;  the  Sower  is  the  Son  of  man,  and  the  tenders  and  the 
reapers  are  the  angels. 

"  Spiritual  wickedness  in  high  places."  They  may  be,  out 
wardly,  the  high,  withdrawn  places  of  refinement,  of  moral, 
decorous  life,  of  a  life  far  separated  and  defended  from  the 
horrible  life  that  makes  prisons  necessary,  and  a  peril  to  lurk  in 
lonely  ways  and  out  of  the  open  sunlight,  for  the  innocent. 
They  may  be  the  high  places  of  simple,  safe  life  like  yours,  in 
these  mountain  shelters.  But  I  dare  to  tell  you,  that  not  a 
man  of  cleanest  outward  standing,  of  proudest  peerage  with 
other  men,  can  have  a  hidden  uncleanness  or  violence  in  him, 
that  does  not  belong  to,  and  work  with,  by  the  law  of  soli 
darity  in  good  and  in  evil,  the  kindred  evil  that  runs  most  dread 
ful  riot  beyond  all  Social  pale  and  recognition ;  that  does  not 
quicken  the  pulses  of  it,  and  make  it  more  fierce,  and  the  deeds 
of  it  to  break  out  in  greater  cruelties  and  shames.  I  dare 
to  tell  you,  that  not  a  woman  wastes  a  foolish  hour  before  her 
glass,  or  steals  one  of  God's  days  that  He  has  lent  her  for  His 
work,  for  the  excessive  decoration  of  her  own  dress,  who  does 
not  touch,  like  Achan,  "  the  accursed  thing,"  the  poison  of 
self-covetousness,  and  make  it  ranker  in  the  earth ;  because  of 
whom,  giving  that  much  of  her  life  into  the  tide  of  sin,  there 
is  not  some  great  wave  swelled  higher,  out  on  the  open  deep, 


222  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

that  breaks,  away  down  there  among  the  reefs,  in  wreck  and 
horror  she  would  not  herself  confess  so  much  as  to  know  of. 
I  tell  you  that  here,  in  this  quiet  country-side,  where  seldom 
any  great  sin  comes  to  light  to  startle  us,  you  may  be  just  in 
this  way  guilty  of  the  world's  wretchedness  of  iniquity,  that 
you  keep  alive  in  your  own  soul  some  breath  that  would  be  of 
it  if  it  gained  volume  and  vent,  and  could  rush  forth  with  its 
like  that  make  the  tempests.  It  will  get  forth,  and  it  does ; 
though  you  give  it  no  body  of  act,  and  you  think  your  hands 
are  stainless.  It  was  the  dragon's  breath  that  slew,  without 
the  touch  of  his  talons ;  and  it  is  every  little  drift  of  air,  — 
perhaps  even  so  little  as  the  fanning  of  a  bird's  wing,  —  set 
ting  along  its  own  way  through  the  quietest  spaces,  that  finds 
at  last  the  gulf-currents  of  the  atmosphere,  and  helps  to  whirl 
up  the  terrible  cyclone. 

You  sit  and  read  your  newspaper ;  you  read  of  felonies,  of 
thefts  and  murders,  and  things  that  ought  neither  to  be  done 
nor  told  of;  and  you  may  read  as  thousands,  I  am  afraid,  do 
read,  so  as  to  be  a  part,  yourself,  of  the  dreadful  story ;  a  part 
after  the  fact,  because  you  get  your  daily  or  your  weekly  news 
out  of  it ;  and  your  news  would  lose  its  spice  if  these  things 
were  not  happening.  There  is  a  spiritual  supply  and  demand, 
as  well  as  a  material :  you  are  a  part  of  an  awful  power,  if  you 
demand  or  delight  in  these  things.  They  will  keep  happening, 
so  long  as  there  is  that  in  human  nature  which  will  even  hear 
them  with  any  sort  of  strange  recognition  or  entertainment. 
There  is  a  realm  in  which  and  from  which  they  work  and  flow ; 
as  the  clouds  are  taken  up  out  of  the  sea,  and  fall  in  floods, 
and  make  the  rivers ;  and  the  very  life  of  you  must  be  part  of 
a  sea  that  exhales  everywhere  and  gathers  into  a  body  and  a 
power  for  an  outpouring  in  the  earth,  —  where,  perhaps,  you 
know  not, —  of  the  open  works  of  righteousness  or  sin. 

Will  you  say,  then,  that  as  this  earth  is  made,  or  has  become, 
there  is  no  standing-place  remaining  for  the  man  who  will  touch 
the  ill  thing  neither  with  the  right  hand  nor  with  the  left  1 
that  we  must  take  matters  as  they  are,  and  do  the  best  we  can 
with  them]  that  we  cannot  be  more  particular  than  our  neigh 
bors,  since  we  are  piece  and  part  of  this  human  being  which, 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.  223 

for  good  or  evil  or  the  mixed  two,  has  constituted  itself  already, 
before  we  ever  came  to  help  or  hinder;  and  no  one  man,  any 
where,  can  so  set  himself  against  the  established  order,  as  to 
alter  its  conditions  ] 

Then  I  tell  you,  that  One  Humanity  has  so  set  itself,  and 
has  called  us  to  that  same  kind  of  humanity,  if  we  will  be  born 
to  it ;  and  to  that  same  work  of  reconstituting  the  human  be 
ing,  which  is  not  fulfilled  or  established  yet,  nor  will  be  till  all 
the  rulings  and  servings  of  it  become  those  of  the  kingdom  of 
the  Lord  Christ.  And  the  longer  any  man  persists  in  just  fend 
ing  for  himself  with  things,  —  good  or  evil,  as  he  finds  them  to 
his  hand, — just  so  much  the  more  is  the  wilderness  enlarged, 
and  the  thorny  tangle  ot  it  manifolded  ;  just  so  much  the  longer 
must  it  be,  and  by  the  multiplication,  too,  according  to  eternal 
powers  and  proportions,  before  "  the  Lord  shall  comfort  Zion, 
and  all  her  waste  places";  before  He  "will  make  her  wilderness 
like  Eden,  and  her  desert  like  the  garden  of  the  Lord." 

Stand  each  man  in  his  place  ;  it  is  all  He  asks  of  you  ;  the 
wJtole  place  is  His  ;  and  stand  for  the  Lord  !  You  may  seem  to 
be  alone ;  you  may  not  be  able  to  fit  your  life  to  the  lives  of 
your  fellows.  To  what  did  the  Son  of  God  fit  His  life  ]  He  was 
alone  in  all  the  earth ;  there  was  no  work  or  abiding  on  it  for 
Him;  the  foxes  —  they  of  craft  and  greed  —  had  their  holes, 
and  the  birds  of  the  air  —  the  light,  inconsequent  ones,  who 
troubled  not  themselves  —  had  their  nests,  —  the  devouring  of 
seeds,  also,  by  the  wayside ;  but  the  Son  of  man  had  not  where 
to  lay  His  head.  His  meat  and  drink  were  only  the  work  of 
His  Father  against  the  world,  and  His  home  the  Heart  of  His 
Father  in  Him,  as  He  gave  His  life  to  be  between  that  Heart  and 
the  suffering,  sinful  hearts  of  men,  to  turn  them  to  it ! 

You  may  be  called  to  do  strange  things,  —  hard  things,  even 
though  small,  for  you  to  do.  But  the  things  are  yet  to  be  done, 
if  there  shall  not  be  destruction  after  destruction  upon  the  easy 
and  familiar  and  unrighteous  doing.  The  world  is  wrong  —  we 
must  face  the  fact  of  it ;  and  that  it  cannot  be  a  wholly  peace 
ful  place  to  live  in  till  the  redemption  of  our  God  has  fully 
come  upon  it.  But  it  cometh,  it  draweth  nigh !  The  powers  of 
judgment  are  mightier  than  the  powers  of  desolation  ;  we  know 


224  ODD,   OK  EVEN? 

not  what  shall  be  His  magnifying  of  the  smallest  act,  done  in  the 
remotest  part,  for  His  name.  He  did  His  mightiest  works  on 
earth  in  Galilee. 

For  He  Himself  abideth  in  the  midst,  where  He  said  He  would 
be,  —  in  all  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth. 

He  is  in  the  midst  —  in  the  inmost  —  of  the  smallest  and  the 
furthest ;  of  every  smallest  and  of  each  most  separate.  That  is 
how  the  whole  place  is  His ;  that  is  how  He  is  the  Judge  of 
the  whole  earth. 

In  the  midst  of  your  individual  work,  interest,  thought,  the 
very  hope  and  intent  of  it  is  His,  more  than,  and  before,  your 
own ;  and  He  will  carry  it  through,  if  only  your  face  is  set 
toward  Him,  and  your  will  in  the  way  of  His  commandment.  ' 

He  has  occasion  and  fulfilment  for  you  all ;  He  has  not  made 
one  too  many,  nor  put  one  in  a  needless  or  forgotten  place. 
There  is  not  one  particle  too  much,  or  of  no  consequence,  in  all 
the  star-dust  of  His  universe ;  there  cannot  be  a  human  soul,  or 
a  human  soul's  experience,  too  much  or  too  little  in  the  making 
of  His  heaven  ;  the  very  hairs  of  your  heads  are  all  numbered, 
and  the  hairs  of  your  heads  are  every  little  outgrowth  and  par 
ticular  of  your  living. 

It  is  His  own  life  in  you  that  makes  your  life ;  it  is  His  own 
wish  for  you  that  makes  your  wish.  I  do  not  mean  to  tell  you 
that  His  way  will  always  run  along  with  your  way.  What  you 
think  is  your  wish  is  sometimes  only  your  way.  Then  He  will, 
by  His  way,  teach  you,  and  give  you,  better;  for  "the  Lord's  por 
tion  is  His  people,  and  Jacob  is  the  lot  of  His  inheritance." 
Therefore  is  your  life  holy.  It  is  the  tabernacle  of  the  Lord  of 
hosts,  else  were  he  not  the  Lord  of  hosts ;  and  "  there  He  will 
meet,  to  speak  unto  thee,"  with  every  one  of  the  children  of  His 
Israel;  and  "the  tabernacle  shall  be  sanctified  with  His  glory." 
"  Shalt  thou  not  build  a  house  for  me  to  dwell  in  1 "  saith  the 
Lord. 

"  Hearken  unto  me,  my  people  !  and  give  ear  unto  me,  0  my 
nation !  for  a  law  shall  proceed  from  me,  and  I  will  make  my 
judgment  to  rest  for  a  light  of  the  people.  My  righteousness  is 
near ;  my  salvation  is  gone  forth  ;  and  mine  arms  shall  judge 
the  people.  The  isles "  —  the  least  little  separate  places  — 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.  225 

"  shall  wait  upon  me,  and  on  mine  arm  shall  they  trust ;  the 
heavens  shall  vanish  away  like  smoke,  and  the  earth  shall  wax 
old  like  a  garment  "  ;  all  these  things  that  seem  unchangeable, 
unconquerable,  shall  be  made  to  pass  away ;  "  and  they  that 
dwell  therein"  and  not  in  me,  " shall  die  in  like  manner  :  but 
my  salvation  shall  be  forever,  and  my  righteousness  shall  not  be 
abolished.  Hearken  unto  me,  ye  that  know  righteousness,  — 
the  people  in  whose  heart  is  my  law ! " 

After  the  benediction  there  was  a  little  waiting,  as  there 
always  is  in  a  country  church,  when  the  menfolks  have  to  go  to 
the  sheds  for  their  wagons,  and  the  women  have  each  other  and 
the  minister  to  speak  to  ;  for  after  sermon,  the  country  minister 
comes  really  into  the  midst  of  his  people  ;  the  old  women  and 
the  little  Sunday-school  children  are  about  him.  The  Sunday- 
school  will  assemble  directly,  and  the  old  women  who  have  come 
"  some  ways,"  as  they  say  of  distance,  have  their  baskets  of 
luncheon,  and  will  stay  over  the  nooning  for  the  afternoon 
service. 

Mr.  Kingsworth,  coming  down  from  his  slight  external  height 
and  separation,  had  these  people,  to  whom  every  Sunday  was  in 
this  way  a  communion,  to  join  his  hand  to  and  to  say  his  word 
with  :  they  had  looked  forward  to  it  all  the  week,  and  would 
think  of  it  all  the  week  after.  He  visited  them  in  their  houses 
faithfully,  and  his  coming  was  a  festival  to  some  of  their  hearts. 
But  this  coming  down  direct  from  the  Mount  of  Teaching,  —  it 
was  as  if  the  gift  of  especial  healing  and  help  were  in  his  first 
touch,  as  it  was  in  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  when  he  came  down 
from  the  Transfiguration. 

He  made  no  haste  for  his  own,  —  to  get  that  clasp  of  the 
hand,  and  that  recognition  in  the  eyes,  shining  already  with  the 
beautiful  joy  of  her  listening,  that  from  France  Everidge  was  a 
beginning  of  what  his  aloneness  here  had  craved  ;  he  would  miss 
it  altogether,  rather  than  let  one  of  his  poorest  parishioners  miss 
half  a  glance  from  her  share  of  him  to-day.  But  the  pew-door 
was  near  the  front  ;  they  were  soon  face  to  face  ;  the  shining 
look  gave  him  thanks  more  than  it  knew,  and  more,  possibly, 
in  its  gladness,  than  it  would  have  meant,  if  it  had  known.  Her 

15 


226  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

hand  rested  an  instant  in  his  while  she  said,  "  This  is  my  father, 
Mr.  Kingsworth  "  ;  and  the  two  gentlemen  exchanged  courteous 
greetings.  Then  the  little  tide  in  the  aisle  crept,  with  a  fresh 
movement,  a  few  paces  onward,  and  they  were  gone,  and  Ber 
nard  Kingsworth  was  left  to  his  old  women  and  his  little  chil 
dren. 

Rael  drove  the  horses  home  ;  Mr.  Everidge  sat  in  front  with 
him.  • 

"  That  was  a  surprising  sermon  your  minister  gave  us  to 
day,"  he  said  to  the  young  farmer. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Rael  answered.  "  Surprisingness  is  exactly  the 
quality  of  Mr.  Kingsworth.  He  seems  to  tell  us  everything, 
almost,  there  is  to  tell  in  every  sermon  ;  but  the  next  time, 
there  is  everything  again,  in  a  new  way,  from  some  new  look 
out.  No  matter  what  his  text  is,  he  touches  the  very  mid 
dle  point  always.  His  Pyramid  is  always  in  the  centre  of  the 
whole  earth." 

Rael  made  his  allusion  with  a  smile,  as  he  glanced  at  Mr. 
Everidge,  not  doubting,  probably,  that  a  man  like  him  knew  all 
about  the  pyramids,  and  the  last  interpretation  of  them. 

But  Mr.  Everidge  was  surprised  again ;  and  there  was  as 
much  blankness  in  his  return  glance  as  a  gentleman  used  to 
polite  conversation  ever  lets  appear.  "  I  was  going  to  say,"  he 
remarked,  with  a  slight  emphasis,  that  confessed  the  changed 
impression  of  the  last  half  minute,  "that  I  should  think  such 
preaching  was  rather  shooting  over  the  heads  of  a  good  many  of 
his  people." 

"  In  that  kind  of  shooting,"  Rael  replied,  "  it 's  hard  to  shoot 
over  a  man's  head,  if  you  once  get  it  lifted  up.  And  that 's 
what  Mr.  Kingsworth's  surprises  do  for  us.  A  man's  measure 
in  some  things,  I  take  it,  is  made  to  be  about  the  same, 
isn't  it1?" 

This  time,  Mr.  Everidge  fairly  turned  round  for  reinforce 
ment.  "  What  do  you  say,  Fran'  1  Do  you  think  they  all 
took  it  in  1  and  where  do  you  suppose  the  young  man  himself 
got  it  all,  and  will  any  of  it  be  lived  out,  here  in  Fellaiden  I " 

"About  all  I  can't  say,  papa,  till  I  've  got  where  Mr.  Kings- 
worth  saw  it.  The  beginning  was  Miss  Amman's  bread  cast 
upon  the  waters.  She  gave  him  the  text." 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SERMON.  227 

"  I  never  did  in  the  world  !  "  Miss  Ammah  contradicted, 
amazedly.  And  then,  with  the  easiest  inconsistency,  demanded, 
"  When  ] " 

"  Down  at  home,  last  spring,  one  morning  at  our  breakfast- 
table,  when  you  asked  me  to  come  up  here  with  you.  Don't  you 
remember  the  '  betweens '  and  the  '  middling,'  when  you  said 
papa  was  a  grocer  ? " 

Miss  Ammah  looked  sharply  at  her.  "  H'm !  and  you  Ve 
been  telling  him  that !  How  came  you  round  to  it  1 " 

"  It  happened  so,"  said  France  quietly. 

And  then  her  father  said  again,  "  I  wonder  if  he  brings 
them  up  to  his  standard  here  1  Will  anybody  trade  stock  or 
sell  crop  accordingly1?" 

"  I  have  known  dealing  done  here,  in  Fellaiden,  accordingly," 
said  France.  And  a  proud  inflection  threw  itself  up  in  her 
clear  voice. 

"  Then  the  man  lost  who  did  it,"  said  Mr.  Everidge. 

"  No,  he  only  paid  what  the  thing  was  worth.  I  mean,  he 
told  the  man  what  the  thing  was  worth  that  he  wanted  to 
buy ;  and  it  was  more  than  he  might  have  had  it  for." 

"  And  did  n't  get  it,  of  course.  There  never  would  be  two 
such  parties  to  a  bargain.  It 's  precisely  what  you  can't  de 
pend  upon.  The  world  isn't  made  so  yet,  as  your  preacher 
confessed.  An  offer  to  pay  more  than  a  man  had  expected 
works  his  price  right  up  another  notch  ;  an  offer  to  sell  as  low 
as  can  be  afforded  runs  your  property  down  below  affording. 
You  can't  help  it.  Everybody  understands.  There  's  a  way  of 
talking  in  trade,  and  it  won't  do  to  invent  a  new  one.  It  is 
like  phonetics  in  spelling:  the  old  fashion  may  be  really  more 
trouble  in  itself,  but  it 's  a  worse  confusion  to  change.  Mat 
ters  come  round  to  pretty  much  the  same  point,  either  way. 
There  's  an  actual  value  in  things  that  business  men  know,  or 
ought  to ;  and  there  need  n't  be  cheating  :  but  there  must  be 
judgment  and  keeping  your  own  counsel,  or  there  would  n't  be 
business.  He  was  all  right  as  to  principle ;  but  the  method 
can't  be  altered  by  one  here  and  there,  any  more  than  spelling 
or  language.  Custom  is  the  language  of  life.  If  a  man  under 
takes  to  stand  by  himself,  he  's  simply  an  odd  one.  He  docs  n't 


228  ODD,    OE    EVEN  ? 

fit  in  anywhere,  and  he  does  n't  count.  He  can't  do  any 
good." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  young  farmer  at  his  side. 
"  But  don't  odd  numbers  count  1  The  number  that  begins  or 
advances  is  odd,  in  the  order  of  numbers.  It  is  the  coming  up 
that  makes  even,  and  the  odd  numbers  were  the  sacred  num 
bers.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  something  in  that." 

Mr.  Everidge  laughed.  "I  see  he  has  got  you"  he  said; 
"and  I  am  afraid  you  did  n't  get  your  bargain." 

"  I  have  n't  lost  any  bargain,  sir,"  Rael  answered,  with  a  curi 
ous,  fine  ring  in  his  tone,  the  antiphon,  perhaps,  to  the  clear, 
sweet  pride  that  had  been  in  France's.  And  at  that  moment 
they  drove  up  to  the  farmhouse  door. 

"There  was  another  thing,"  observed  Mr.  Everidge,  as  he 
and  Miss  Ammah  walked  through  upon  the  west  piazza.  "  He 
made  very  little  account  of  civilization.  Now  a  decent  man.w 
an  advance  upon  the  brute,  and  the  proprieties  of  life  are  a 
certain  sort  of  religion.  People  are  bound  to  something  by 
them,  and  kept  out  of  something.  If  it  were  n't  for  good 
breeding,  I  don't  know  where  Christianity  would  be." 

"  Put  it  the  other  way,"  said  Miss  Ammah.  "  If  it  were  n't 
for  Christianity,  where  would  good  breeding  be  1 " 

"  The  old  Greeks  and  the  Romans  had  something  of  it,  I 
fancy." 

"  Yes,  a  kind  that  made  place  for  pretty  much  everything 
that  breaks  the  ten  commandments.  And  I  don't  know  that 
our  good  breeding,  taken  by  itself,  does  much  better.  There  's 
room  in  it  for  nearly  what  you  please.  Why,  we  should  all 
be  scratching  like  cats,  for  all  good  breeding,  if  there  were  n't 
very  polite  ways  provided  for  expressing  the  same  emotions." 

"  0,  I  hope  not,"  Mr.  Everidge  said,  in  the  laughing  tone 
with  which  men  dismiss  a  woman's  extreme  but  keen  retort, 
and  walking  with  a  certain  unrest  of  manner  up  and  down  the 
short  piazza-floor.  "  That 's  the  right  kind  of  preaching,  though," 
he  resumed,  with  a  conceding  seriousness.  "  If  people  heard  it 
all  the  time,  it  would  insensibly  raise  the  standard.  But  no 
one  man  can  raise  it  single-handed  and  at  a  jump." 

Evidently  the  preaching  was  a  difficult  thing  to  be  quite 
disposed  of. 


SUNDAY,  AND  A  SEEMON.          229 

Up  in  the  little  shed-chamber,  Sarell  Gately  was  laying  away 
her  hat  and  her  Sunday  ribbons.  The  many-pointed  sermon 
had  had  its  point  for  her;  and  she  was,  at  the  same  time,  laying 
away  its  application,  to  which  she  had  arrived  in  her  mind  dur 
ing  the  ride  home,  not  hearing  or  attending  to,  in  the  rumbling 
of  the  big  wagon,  all  that  was  being  said  so  far  forward  of  her. 
She  had  just  precisely  her  own  question  to  settle,  not  the  prin 
ciples  of  trade. 

"  It 's  the  folks,"  she  remarked  up  here  to  herself,  "  that  I 
care  about  fust  'n  foremost,  an'  the  fairness :  I  know  that. 
An'  then,  p'raps,  it 's  the  satisfaction,  too.  What  'd  be  th'  use 
o'  bein'  smart  otherways  1  But,  ef  't  war  n't  too  awful  small  a 
chink,  an'  ef  I  could  git  b'tween  Mother  Pemble  herself  an'  the 
very  ol'  Sat'n  of  it  all,  —  well,  I  'd  jest  like  t'  do  'gzac'ly  the 
smartest  thing  that  could  be  did  ;  an'  I  guess  that  'd  be  about 
it,  sure  enough  ?  How'ver,  I  've  got  t'  ketch  her  fust,  any  way. 
It 's  all  one  road,  t'll  I  git  that  fur." 

And  Sarell  pinned  her  clean  bib-apron  to  her  shoulders,  and 
took  her  way  downstairs.  It  was  comfortable  that  the  light 
upon  her  path  showed  no  doubtful  fork  in  the  road  immediately 
before  her  feet. 

France,  looking  in  her  glass  as  she  removed  veil  and  bon 
net,  saw  a  face  glowing  yet  rose-red,  and  two  eyes  shining 
in  the  glow  like  morning  stars.  She  could  not  help  being 
glad  to  be  so  pretty ;  but  she  would  not  look  again  or  think 
about  it  now. 

She  had  been  glad  of  such  nobler  things,  she  would  not 
descend  to  any  petty  "  midst "  of  self.  She  would  not  spend 
that  "foolish"  half-minute,  even,  that  would  take  a  crumb  of 
the  bread  she  had  been  fed  with,  and  fling  it  to  the  dogs. 

She  had  listened  to  the  brave,  lovely  truth  :    was  that  all  1 

She  had  set  it  side  by  side,  as  it  was  told,  with  a  brave,  lovely 
doing  of  the  truth.  She  would  be  proud  of  that.  What  should 
hinder  1  Rael  Heybrook  was  her  friend,  she  could  understand 
him.  She  thought  the  more,  not  the  less,  of  herself  for  that. 

She  intrenched  herself  so  resolutely  beside  Miss  Ammah. 
Miss  Ammah  liked,  praised  Rael.  Where  the  woman  could 
stand,  the  girl  could. 


230 


ODD,    OE   EVEN  ? 


She  hated  so  those  two  whispering,  stinging  words,  "propin 
quity,"  "  infatuation."  Nobody  could  apply  them  to  Miss 
Amman. 

With  this  piece  of  sweet-clover  shrub  she  armed  herself,  to 
keep  off  biting  insects ;  and  bearing  it,  she  drifted  peacefully 
on  into  her  intangible  dreams. 


MONDAY.  231 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MONDAY. 

IT  really  seemed  as  if  all  Fellaiden  had  been  waiting  for 
him.  What  would  it  have  done,  if  he  had  not  come  there  for 
those  three  days  1  And  surely  in  this  country  nook  there  was 
no  end  of  surprises. 

When  Mr.  Everidge  came  out  from  his  breakfast  on  the  Mon 
day  morning,  there  stood  Flip  Merriweather  on  the  front  door- 
stone,  waiting  to  secure  an  early  word  with  him. 

Not  in  his  Sunday  best,  he  knew  better  than  that.  He  had 
lifted  his  white  Sunday  straw  hat  to  the  merchant,  standing  on 
the  church  steps  yesterday  :  he  had  taken  care  to  let  him  see 
the  country  youth  as  he  could  present  himself.  To-day,  he 
was  not  in  shirtsleeves  and  big  field  hat,  but  in  a  suit  of  clothes 
and  head-gear  something  between  these  and  the  evident  get-up 
of  rest-days  or  dress-days.  He  took  his  hat  off  as  Mr.  Ever 
idge  came  through  the  hall,  held  it  without  fumbling,  and  raised 
his  eyes  without  abashment  to  the  gentleman's  face.  He  knew 
better  than  to  be  confused  or  to  hesitate. 

He  had  been  very  bright,  knowing,  agreeable  on  Saturday. 
He  had  asked  intelligent  questions,  and  listened  intelligently 
and  attentively  to  replies.  He  had  fished  for  trout,  he  had 
caught  trout.  If  he  had  fished  for  anything  else,  he  had  shown 
neither  hook  nor  line. 

This  morning  he  carne  with  a  straight  errand.  He  had  found 
out  how  a  man  like  Mr.  Everidge  would  like  to  be  approached, 
if  approached  at  all. 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  up  your  time,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  came 
to  ask  something  that  can  be  asked  in  half  a  minute.  I 
want  a  chance  in  the  city ;  to  learn  business,  and  get  it.  I  want 


232  ODD,   OE   EVEN? 

you  to  find,  if  you  can,  a  corner  among  your  workers  that  you 
can  put  me  into,  to  work  and  learn.  I  don't  care  if  it 's  a  coal- 
corner,  if  I  can  only  get  further  some  time.  I  've  got  money 
enough  to  keep  me  for  a  year,  and  I  don't  ask  pay.  But  I 
want  to  get  out  into  the  channel ;  I  've  been  up  the  creek  long 
enough." 

"  Is  this  a  new  idea1?  Is  it  my  coming  that  has  put  it  into 
your  head  ? " 

"  No,  sir.  I  've  been  waiting  for  my  opportunity,  and  study 
ing  out  how  I  could  possibly  make  it.  Now,  if  it 's  come,  I 
won't  lose  it  for  want  of  finding  it  out." 

Mr.  Everidge  liked  this.  Flip  knew  he  would,  and  meant  he 
should.  He  stood  perfectly  still,  held  his  hat  still,  and  kept 
his  eyes  on  the  merchant's  face. 

"  Do  your  friends  know  1 " 

"  They  know  what  I  want,  and  mean.  I  've  only  my  sister  and 
her  husband,  Doctor  Fargood.  He  can  tell  you  about  me. 
I  'm  with  them  till  I  can  do  more." 

It  happened  that  a  young  shipping-clerk  of  Everidge  &  Co.'s 
was  just  now  in  rather  failing  health.  He  would,  probably, 
not  hold  out  at  his  work  through  a  Boston  winter ;  he  might 
do  something  in  their  employ  in  the  West  Indies ;  meanwhile, 
it  had  already  occurred  to  Mr.  Everidge  that  it  was  time  to  put 
another  in  the  line  of  training.  He  reconsidered  this,  in  a  new 
connection  ;  ran  over  the  brief  promotion  list  in  his  mind,  and 
settled  where  a  wide-awake  fellow  like  this  might  fit  himself,  in 
a  few  months,  to  drop  in.  He  was  silent  for  just  about  the 
half  minute  that  corresponded  to  Flip's ;  then  he  said,  right 
out,  and  at  once,  "  I  like  your  way.  I  've  no  doubt  I  could  do 
something  with  you.  I  '11  put  you  on  the  wharf,  under  one 
of  my  shippers,  and  you  may  see  what  you  can  learn,  and 
how  fast  you  can  come  up  to  it.  There  's  enough  to  do.  I  '11 
give  you  five  dollars  a  week,  at  first ;  then,  when  you  Ve  worth 
more,  I  '11  pay  you  by  the  month  ;  and  if  you  prove  yourself 
worth  while,  in  six  months  I  '11  put  you  on  a  year's  engagement 
and  salary,  at  five  hundred  dollars.  You  '11  earn  that,  if  you  're 
any  use  at  all." 

Flip  could  n't  help  the  flash  in  his  eye ;  but  he  kept  it  steady, 


MONDAY.  233 

while  he  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir,  heartily ;  it 's  more  than  I 
expected." 

"  When  will  you  be  ready  1" 

"  I  'm  ready  now." 

"  Go  down  with  me  to-morrow,  then." 

And  Philip  Merriweather  bowed,  and  departed  from  the 
presence  a  made  man.  He  walked  quietly  across  the  yard  and 
roadway ;  when  he  had  disappeared  behind  the  hay  and  corn- 
barns,  he  cast  one  quick  glance  around  the  fields,  then 
dropped  himself  upon  hands  and  feet,  and  turned  three  or  four 
cart-wheels  of  pure  boy-joy.  After  that,  he  picked  up  his  hat, 
left  the  boy  forever  behind  him,  as  if  then  and  there  and  by 
that  ceremony,  he  had  cast  the  slough,  and  marched  down  the 
Great  Mowing,  not  looking  round,  or  caring  who  there  might 
be  to  see  him  as  he  went. 

France  got  her  father  to  herself  for  the  rest  of  the  forenoon  ; 
she  had  him  about  with  her  in  all  her  nearer  haunts ;  they 
were  both  very  happy. 

France  told  him  about  her  friends ;  she  did  n't  say  quite  so 
much  about  Rael  as  she  had  meant  to  say  ;  but  she  set  forth 
the  household  life  and  character,  and  the  oneness  of  Miss 
Ammah  with  it,  and  her  active  interest.  She  told  all  about 
the  Gilley  bargain  ;  she  knew  it  had  been  partly  explained 
already,  and  that  it  was  no  secret.  Mr.  Everidge  acknowledged 
that  there  was  common  sense  between  the  high  morality  of  the 
transaction  and  utter  Quixotism ;  he  thought  very  well  of 
young  Heybrook.  He  thought  well  of  that  other  fellow,  also, 
Merriweather  ;  he  knew  what  he  was  about ;  he  was  going  to 
give  him  a  chance  with  himself.  France  was  really  glad  ;  she 
was  proud  of  her  father's  power  and  generosity. 

The  sermon  sat  more  comfortably  to-day  in  Mr.  Everidge's 
mind ;  he  had  "  stood  between "  to  some  kind  and  efficient 
purpose,  this  morning.  As  he  reviewed  his  career  in  the  light 
of  this  reminder,  he  recalled  many  places  where  he  had  so  stood 
between;  many  a  comfortable  independence,  some  rising  for 
tunes,  that  owed  their  beginnings  to  him.  A  business  man 
had  opportunities  ;  certainly  he  was  responsible  for  them. 

Other  and  opposite  satisfactions  recurred  to  him,  occasions 


234  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

when  he  had  hindered  or  discouraged  what  might  have  led  to 
risk  or  loss  for  others ;  as  he  had  done,  or  thought  he  had  done, 
with  Miss  Ammah  herself,  but  two  days  since.  A  little  older 
instance  was  in  his  mind,  for  which  he  took  to  himself  especial 
credit. 

"  Women  and  children  should  n't  meddle  with  dangerous 
machinery,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  They  're  sure  to  take  their 
fingers  oft"  in  a  hay-cutter." 

They  talked  a  little  about  the  minister.  France  spoke  of 
him  as  she  felt.  "  I  think  there  is  n't  one  man  in  a  hundred 
like  him,"  she  said. 

"  Then  why  on  earth  does  he  stay  up  here,  in  this  corner  1 " 
asked  the  man  of  values  and  markets. 

"  I  believe  he  is  quite  able  to  stay  where  he  likes  best,"  said 
France.  "  And  he  seems  to  have  chosen  to  stay  here  ;  at  least, 
now.  I  should  think  anybody  who  could  might  choose  to  stay 
here,  papa  ! " 

"  Then  you  're  not  ready  to  go  home  with  me  1 " 

"  You  did  n't  come  for  me  ]     You  did  n't  say  so  !  " 

"  And  you  did  n't  ask.  I  knew  very  well  it  would  n't  do  to 
risk  my  authority !  But  my  little  Fran'  mustn't  get  weaned 
altogether  away  from  us  ! "  and  he  laid  his  hand,  fatherly -loving, 
upon  her  shoulder. 

France  was  furious  with  herself  for  coloring  up  so.  There 
was  neither  reason  nor  connection  in  it.  She  put  her  hand  up 
and  laid  it  upon  his,  but  she  kept  her  head  so  that  her  shade 
hat  shielded  her  face  from  him,  and  she  hoped  he  had  not 
noticed  it. 

She  spied  a  four-leaved  clover,  as  she  looked  downward  on 
the  grass.  She  sprang  away  from  him  to  pick  it.  Then  she 
came  back  and  made  him  a  little  presentation  of  it.  "  It  was 
growing  hot,"  she  said.  "  Should  they  walk  back  toward  the 
house  ] " 

They  had  all  the  Great  Mowing  to  climb,  from  the  shady 
brookside.  It  was  just  a  little  breathless,  in  the  eleven  o'clock 
sun ;  and  they  did  not  talk  much  more  by  the  way. 

In  the  afternoon  came  Bernard  Kingsworth,  with  his  light 
buggy  and  his  little  Morgan.  He  came  to  ask  Mr.  Everidge  to 


MONDAY.  235 

drive  with  him  to  the  High  Mills  Village,  and  around  by  the 
"  Under-Mountain  Road,"  beneath  the  precipices  of  Thnmble,  to 
the  East  Hills  and  the  ravines,  and  back  over  Fellaiden 
Height. 

Before  Mr.  Everidge  had  made  the  circuit,  he  had  seen 
enough  to  modify  his  idea  of  the  "  corner,"  and  his  question 
as  to  how  a  man,  "  like  whom  there  was  not  one  in  a  hundred," 
should  choose  to  stay  in  it.  It  would  seem  to  be  just  that  sort 
of  a  man,  indeed,  for  whom  it  was  worth  while  to  have  been 
made.  He  had,  also,  received  his  fourth  surprise. 

On  the  homeward  turn,  while  they  were  slowly  descending 
the  steep  terraces  from  the  Centre  Village,  with  the  grand  out 
spread  before  them  of  six  hill-ranges,  from  the  dusk  of  the 
overlapping  slopes  of  Heybrook  Farm  to  the  high,  pale,  misty 
blue  of  the  Vermont  peaks,  up  and  down  whose  indented 
horizon-line  the  sun  travels  his  clear-traced  path  from  solstice 
to  solstice  through  the  year,  Bernard  Kingsworth  spoke  of  that 
which  he  had  but  just  begun  to  read,  in  any  word-shape,  in  his 
own  mind.  The  last  two  days  had  been  full  days,  days  of 
revealing ;  and  by  Mr.  Everidge's  sudden  appearance,  the  young 
minister  was  made  all  at  once  to  see  himself  in  a  very  definite 
light,  —  a  light  in  which,  now  that  he  had  come,  he  felt  bound 
to  show  himself  to  France's  father. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  go  away,  Mr.  Everidge,"  he  began,  after  a 
few  moments'  silence,  as  they  came  over  the  crown  of  the  hill, 
"  without  saying  something  to  you  that  it  may  seem  very  pre 
cipitate,  almost  presumptuous,  to  say,  seeing  that  you  have 
only  known  of  my  existence  these  two  days." 

The  merchant  wondered.  Was  it  to  be  a  piece  of  evangeliz 
ing  ]  Was  the  gospel  to  be  "  brought  home  to  him,"  after  what 
he  had  heard  was  the  fashion  in  primitive  Puritan  places  1  He 
hoped  this  young  man,  who  had  preached  such  a  strong  sermon 
yesterday,  was  not  going  to  stultify  his  work  to-day  with  any 
such  bad  taste.  He  had  had  a  conversation  with  him  that  he 
had  thoroughly  enjoyed  ;  many  things  —  among  the  rest,  Philip 
Merriweather  and  his  new  prospects  and  interests,  of  which 
Mr.  Kingsworth  had  spoken  with  the  clearest  good  sense,  with 
the  sort  of  sympathy  and  perception,  also,  that  were  consistent 


236  ODD,   OB  EVEN? 

with  his  character  and  relation  to  the  youth,  yet  without  a 
particle  of  cant  or  prejudice  —  had  come  up  for  mention  and 
discussion  between  them ;  and  every  word  of  the  young  minis 
ter's  might  have  been  said  by  one  quite  unprofessional,  yet 
would  not  have  been  said  by  any  one  of  a  less  noble  type  of 
manhood. 

Now,  what,  all  at  once,  did  this  peculiar,  personal  exordium 
preface  1 

Mr.  Everidge  sat  quite  silent,  leaving  the  burden  of  whatever 
it  might  be  altogether  to  his  companion. 

"  Your  coming  is  a  part  of  the  event,"  the  young  man  said. 
"  It  puts  me  in  a  position  which  makes  that  binding  upon  me 
which  I  might  not  yet  have  felt  bound  to  seek.  I  do  not  know 
yet  my  own  chances  of  hope  in  it.  I  have  only  made  sure  that 
I  do  hope  for  it,  more  earnestly  than  I  ever  before  desired  any 
earthly  thing.  Not  an  earthly  thing,  either.  Mr.  Everidge, 
may  I  ask  your  daughter  if  she  can  care  for  me  as  I  care  for 
her  1 " 

A  positive  swift  pain  contracted  Mr.  Everidge's  forehead, 
and  even  whitened  suddenly  about  his  lips.  Nobody  had  come 
and  asked  for  something  right  out  of  his  very  heart  before.  His 
little  Fran'  ]  The  girl  that  was  just  older  than  his  little  chil 
dren,  and  not  grown,  he  had  thought,  to  the  womanhood  of  the 
elder  ones,  that  had  somehow  separated  them  a  good  deal  from 
him]  His  one  safe,  sole,  especial  daughter]  Let  it  come  from 
whom  it  would,  it  was  a  blow. 

He  could  not  help  Bernard  Kingsworth's  perceiving  that. 
He  did  not  care  to.  He  did  not  speak  a  word  for  many  seconds ; 
then  he  said  briefly,  though  the  saying  came  slowly,  "  I  have 
only  known  of  you,  as  you  say,  for  these  two  days." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bernard  Kingsworth.  "  It  seems  almost  like 
highway  robbery,  I  know.  But  I  had  it  to  tell  you."  And  a 
smile,  that  was  very  gentle  in  its  comprehension  of  the  other's 
feeling,  just  moved  his  lip,  while  his  tone  was  at  once  tender 

and  strong. 

e  # 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Of  course,  I  can  see  what  you  are, 
Mr.  Kingsworth.  This,  however !  There  are  many  things  —  " 

"  I  could  take  care  of  her.  She  should  never  miss  anything 
she  ought  not  to  miss." 


MONDAY.  237 

"  It  is  n't  that,  altogether,"  said  Mr.  Everidge  hastily.  A 
man's  instinct  is  to  repudiate  calculation,  when  the  question  is 
of  a  man,  who  is  a  man,  giving  his  whole  self,  with  all,  be  it 
more  or  less,  that  he  may  have,  be,  or  can  do,  and  only  be 
seeching  a  girl  that  she  will  take  him.  And  yet  the  question 
has  to  be  of  money  also,  and  the  difference  that  money  or  no 
money  makes.  So  Mr.  Everidge  added  honestly  his  "  alto 
gether."  "  But  her  life  has  been  so  different.  She  has  had  so  little 
time.  I  can't  wish  that  the  subject  should  be  brought  to  her 
just  yet,  in  any  way.  I  can't  spare  her,  yet,  to  anybody  !  I 
wish  you  had  not  asked  me  this,  Mr.  Kingsworth." 

Mr.  Kingsworth  kept  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  he 
said,  "  Put  yourself  in  my  place.  Could  I  have  done  other 
wise  ] " 

"  Why  must  the  man  be  in  his  place  ] "  was  the  impatient 
mental  response ;  but  Mr.  Everidge  knew  he  was  unreasonable. 
He  waited  again  a  little  before  replying. 

In  the  five  minutes  already  since  the  shock  came,  it  had 
begun,  as  all  shocks  do,  to  grow  familiar.  He  began  to  see  the 
other  side  of  it.  It  was  like  the  mountain  they  had  just  come 
round,  —  a  long,  green  slope  on  one  hand,  on  the  other,  an  in 
stant,  precipitous  plunge. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  had  had  all  summer  for  this  fact  to 
grow  in  him;  there  were  only  these  five  minutes  for  him  to 
declare  it  in.  Five  minutes,  in  which,  so  independent  is  fact 
of  time,  it  had  been  able  to  become  almost  as  an  old  matter  to 
himself. 

A  great  deal  had  been  able  to  pass  through  his  mind,  and 
range  itself  about  it,  giving  it  established  place  and  relation. 
The  swift  resistance  of  his  own  feeling,  the  reaction  to  a  fair 
acknowledgment  of  what  was  due,  not  only  to  this  gentleman, 
but  to  his  daughter —  how  did  he  know  what  the  summer  had 
wrought  in  her  also  1  The  first  impulse  to  carry  her  directly 
away  with  him,  out  of  this  threat,  this  danger;  the  recollection 
that  if  the  mischief  were  done,  that  would  be  of  no  use,  and  if 
not  done,  the  very  best  thing  would  be  for  Bernard  Kingsworth 
to  find  it  out,  and  not  be  coming  down  after  her  to  Boston ; 
where,  with  longer  time,  it  might  befall. 


238  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

He  began  to  be  rather  glad,  upon  the  whole,  that  the  man 
was  in  what  looked  to  himself  such  a  hurry ;  he  had  confessed 
that  he  knew  nothing  of  his  own  chances ;  he  could  not  have 
gone  far,  nor  France  have  met  him  with  much  consciousness 
or  encouragement.  Now,  with  the  permission  he  was  asking 
for,  he  must  speak,  aud  get  his  answer. 

But  his  France,  up  here,  in  this  little  farming  parish,  the 
parson's  wife,  on,  probably,  something  like  six  hundred  dollars 
a  year ! 

"  It  was  n't  that,  altogether,"  indeed  !  but  he  began,  on  that 
point  of  it,  to  feel,  certainly,  a  little  angry. 

He  hoped  to  leave  her  ten  times  as  many  thousands,  some 
day ;  but  it  was  all  afloat  in  his  ships  and  business  now ;  even 
this  last  fine  return  of  speculation  could  hardly  be  counted  as 
a  thing  to  be  abstracted  and  divided.  He  could  do  better  by 
her,  doubtless,  in  consequence ;  but  there  were  five  of  them ; 
and  as  long  as  a  man  lives,  and  continues  business  operations, 
all  he  may  have  is  never  too  much  for  foundation  and  moving 
capital. 

"  I  see,"  he  answered  aloud,  after  all  this  had  been  flashing 
through  him  in  such  space  as  he  could  leave  Mr.  Kingsworth 
absolutely  unanswered.  "  You  have  known  her  all  summer, 
and  I  you  but  two  days.  Allow,  merely,  for  the  difference." 
And  he  smiled  in  his  turn.  "  After  all,  it  must  rest  with  her, 
other  things  being  proved  possible.  I  do  not  see,  since  the 
question  has  come  to  exist  between  you,  but  you  will  have  to 
ask  it  of  her.  —  Only  —  I  can't  give  my  little  girl  up  to  any 
hardship.  I  am  trying  my  best  to  earn  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  for  her,  before  I  die." 

It  was  in  this  way,  scarcely  a  bad  one,  on  the  whole,  that  he 
managed  to  put  forth  that  \igly  money  consideration,  which 
must  always  be  a  consideration. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  smiled ;  it  was  a  pleasant,  easy  play  of  face, 
but  moved  from  no  such  depth  as  it  had  been  before. 

"  I  hope  you  may,"  he  said,  "  if  you  desire  it.  But  mean 
while,  a  good  long  meanwhile,  I  hope  again  —  she  will  —  would 
—  not  need  it.  I  have  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  my 
own." 


MONDAY.  239 

He  said  it  as  quietly  as  if  he  might  have  said  his  little  par 
sonage  house  was  a  very  comfortable  one. 

Mr.  Everidge  was  exceedingly  glad  of  having  spoken  in  pre 
cisely  the  order  that  he  had ;  it  would  have  been  awkward  if 
his  proviso  had  drawn  forth  this  information  before  he  had  given 
any  other  sort  of  answer. 

Even  then  there  had  been  nothing  said  of  General  Kings- 
worth,  the  uncle  in  Montreal.  Nor  was  there,  although  Bernard 
told  him,  briefly,  that  his  ties  of  kindred  was  very  few ;  an  only 
sister,  younger  than  himself,  being  all  that  was  left  of  his  im 
mediate  family,  their  parents  having  died  in  his  own  boyhood 
and  the  daughter's  babyhood. 

There  remained  something  for  Miss  Ammah  to  add,  when 
Mr.  Everidge  talked  with  her  about  it  for  a  few  minutes  in  the 
evening,  managing  to  keep  her  for  that  purpose,  after  he  had 
bidden  France  good-night,  and  while  he  smoked  a  supple 
mentary  half  cigar. 

On  the  other  hand,  Miss  Ammah  herself  had  known  nothing 
of  the  amount  of  Bernard  Kiugsworth's  present  independence. 

"  I  will  have  nothing  mentioned  of  the  matter,  though,"  Mr. 
Everidge  concluded.  "I  shall  tell  nobody  at  home.  Fran' 
shall  do  as  she  pleases ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  she  will  please  to 
belong  to  me  for  a  dozen  years  to  come.  How  coolly  these 
young  fellows  step  up  to  ask  you  for  your  daughters  !  as  if  you 
could  have  no  further  use  for  them  yourself ! " 

"  That 's  a  piece  of  the  making  of  the  world,  or  the  keeping 
up  of  it,"  said  Miss  Ammah.  "That's  where  you  are  only  a 
between  again." 

And,  as  usual,  she  had  the  last  word  of  it.  Mr.  Everidge 
flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  away  into  the  grass,  and  went  off  to 
bed. 

So  the  Monday  was  over,  and  the  Tuesday  came ;  Mr.  Ever 
idge  went  back  to  the  city  and  his  counting-room,  taking  Flip 
with  him ;  and  France  was  left,  with  even  a  tenderer  good-by 
kiss  than  usual  from  her  father,  but  all  unknowing  why,  and  to 
what  he  left  her. 


240  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

PLANS,   A  PLOT,   AND    A   PLEADING. 

THE  next  was  a  week  of  glowing,  thundery  weather, —  short, 
sharp  flashes  of  storm,  between  fervid  noons  and  superb,  sweet 
sunsets.  Mrs.  Heybrook  was  still  "overdoin"';  but  where  so 
many  people  underdo,  there  remains  nothing  but  that  such  as 
she  should  carry  the  giant's  end  of  the  tree  while  the  lazy 
dwarfs  sit  chirrupping  in  the  branches.  A  demand  came  from 
East  Hollow  for  a  two  days'  loan  of  Sarell.  Elviry  was  away  ; 
Care  'line  was  "  all  beat  out  with  the  work  and  the  thunder." 
Farmer  Heybrook  looked  sober  ;  Israel  frowned  ;  Mother  Hey 
brook  "  did  n't  know  how,"  and  then,  as  usual,  consented  with 
out  knowing.  That  same  day  occurred  the  severest,  and  the 
last,  of  the  thunder-gusts.  We  shall  hear  more  of  it  elsewhere. 
The  minister  had  not  yet  been  at  West  Side. 

In  the  serene  afternoon  of  the  day  succeeding  the  tempest 
France  ventured  a  long  walk  again.  She  went  with  Miss  Am- 
mah  and  Rael  over  to  the  Gilley  Place. 

There  is  a  great  charm  in  going  over  a  pleasant,  empty  dwell 
ing.  One  fills  it  with  all  the  possibilities. 

The  Gilleys  had  been  gone  several  days ;  the  thing  had  been 
said  and  done  together.  They  had  not  had  much  to  take 
away  ;  there  had  not  been  much  to  dispose  of.  They  had  sold 
some  things  ;  some  things  had  been  given  away  ;  Miss  Ammah 
had  paid  good  prices  —  not  the  prices  fashionable  collectors  pay 
up  in  the  country  where  the  value  of  the  fashion  has  not  come  — 
for  some  solid,  ancient  pieces  of  furniture,  that  were  still  stand 
ing  in  their  places,  where  they  had  been  for  three  quarters  of  a 
century.  Otherwise,  all  was  empty  and  swept  out ;  for  Miss 
Ammah  always  cleared  up  as  she  went,  and  she  had  had  women 
cleaning  there  within  an  hour  after  the  final  departure.  The 


PLANS,    A   PLOT,    AND   A   PLEADING.  241 

better  rooms  had  hardly  been  used  for  years ;  these  last  Gilleys 
had  bivouacked  iu  the  shed  portion,  and  that  was  all  to  be 
taken  down.  Miss  Ammah  meant  to  have  mechanics  there  at 
once,  to  do  all  that  could  be  well  done  before  winter,  so  as  to 
close  it  safely,  and  leave  it  in  the  nearest  possible  readiness  for 
what  she  would  do  by  and  by.  It  was  about  these  things  she 
wanted  to  consult  Rael. 

France  also ;  "  You  must  come  and  tell  me  about  colors  and 
finishings,"  she  said.  "  Things  might  as  well  be  pretty,  when 
they  've  got  to  be  something  ;  especially,  when  you  don't  believe 
in  rooting  up  every  five  years  to  make  over  in  some  last  sort  of 
prettiness.  I  've  got  a  real  handsome  old  foundation.  Those 
Gilleys  have  been  living  anyhow ;  but  the  house  was  built  by 
people  who  lived  so?»ehow." 

So  it  was.  It  was  not  large,  but  it  had  an  expression  of 
largeness;  the  hallway  ran  straight  through,  and  so  did  the 
morning  or  the  afternoon  sun  when  east  or  west  doors  were 
opened  ;  the  stair  sloped  leisurely  up  along  one  whole  side  ;  the 
rooms  were  low,  square,  heavily  raftered,  plentifully  windowed ; 
there  was  a  kind  of  broad,  pleasant  proportion  in  them  that 
struck  the  feeling  at  once.  Everything  was  solid,  enduring  : 
mere  surface  neglect  or  misuse  could  not  spoil  that ;  these  were 
easily  obliterated  and  replaced  with  improvement. 

Wall-papers  were  queer  enough,  soiled  enough,  tattered 
enough ;  but  the  high  wainscots,  with  their  grooved  and  fluted 
cornices,  were  of  real  old  hardwoods,  and  around  the  ceilings 
ran  beautiful  quaint  mouldings  in  high  fret-bars  and  billets  and 
corbels ;  all  plain,  simple,  and  heavy,  belonging  to  the  far-back 
time  when  people  did  things  simply,  but  put  into  them  such 
ampleness  and  genuineness  of  material,  such  patience  of  time 
and  labor,  as  made  them  rich.  No  wear  or  defacement  had 
reached  these  adornments  in  all  the  years  that  they  had  been 
so  incongruous  with  the  shifty,  scrambling,  fugacious  living 
below.  France  and  Miss  Ammah  looked  at  them  with  de 
light. 

"  Why,  it 's  all  done  ! "  said  France. 

"  Fifty  years  ago,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  "  it  was  fine  to  get 
rid  of  all  these  beams  and  corner-posts  and  to  have  flat  surfaces 

16 


242  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

and  smooth  plaster  finish.  Now  people  are  tearing  down  their 
plaster  and  filling  their  rooms  up  with  timbers  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  original  building.  Just  as  they  pretend  with 
gas-logs  for  wood  fires,  and  set  up  spinning-wheels  in  the 
corners  when  they  don't  know  a  flyer  from  a  distaff,  or  whether 
they've  all  the  pieces  that  belong  or  not." 

"  If  I  were  going  to  build  a  house,  though,  Miss  Ammah,  I 
would  build  it  like  this,"  said  France. 

"  You  would  ! "  said  Miss  Ammah,  and  looked  pleased.  "  I 
don't  know  that  I  would,  though,"  she  added.  "  I  think  it 's 
good  to  be  true  to  one's  times.  When  people  built  like  this 
they  had  plenty  of  timber,  and  not  plenty  of  ways  and  works 
such  as  we  have  got  since.  Now  we  have  the  works  and  ways, 
and  not  the  timber.  It 's  an  extravagant  luxury,  merely,  if  you 
put  it  in.  So  I  'm  not  sure  about  the  business  we  have  with  it." 

11  You  must  be  glad  this  has  happened  so  at  any  rate,"  said 
France  ;  and  then  they  went  to  the  plans  and  the  colors. 

There  was  a  little  southwest  chamber,  all  sunshine,  that 
France  said  should  be  painted  in  pale,  cool  blue,  and  have  one 
of  those  lovely  new  blue-checked  mattings  on  the  floor.  Then 
there  was  another  in  a  north  angle  that  should  be  in  delicious 
buff,  with  a  thread-line  of  vermilion  "to  make  sunshine."  The 
dark,  "  real "  woods  in  the  large  rooms  should  be  cleansed  and 
polished  only,  of  course. 

Between  two  of  the  chief  apartments  on  the  south  side  was 
an  included  platform  or  roofed  portico,  upon  which  a  door  at 
either  end  opened.  This  Miss  Ammah  said  she  would  have  in 
closed  with  glass  and  made  warm  for  plants,  and  for  a  pleasant 
connecting  gallery  to  sit  in  in  the  winter.  From  this  one 
looked  straight  across  the  Heybrook  slopes  to  the  grand  height 
of  Thumble.  The  Gilley  house  stood  upon  a  ledge,  higher  yet 
than  those  intervening  uplands. 

To  the  west,  where  the  hall  door  opened,  all  those  lovely  hill 
outlines  swept  and  rolled  away,  with  the  soft  haze  of  the  great 
river  valley  veiling  the  mountain  swells  beyond.  It  was  the 
beauty  of  Heybrook  hillside,  widened. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  this  in  the  winter,  with  the  snow,"  said 
France,  standing  there  with  Rael  Heybrook  beside  her,  "and 


PLANS,   A  PLOT,   AND   A   PLEADING.  243 

your  plants  in  the  little  glass  gallery.  Why,  Miss  Ammah ! " 
she  exclaimed  with  sudden  inference  that  had  not  struck  her 
before,  "do  you  really  mean  ever  to  be  here  in  the  winter?" 

"  Somebody  will,  after  I  've  set  the  house  going,"  said  Miss 
Ammah,  "and  I  shall  know  it  is  here.  I  like  to  know  there 
is  a  place  away  from  hotels  and  visitings.  I  never  had  one 
before." 

"  I  wish  I  were  as  old  as  you  are,  Miss  Ammah,"  said  France. 
"  That 's  wishing  me  comfortably  under  the  daisies,"  returned 
the  elder  lady. 

"  No.  I  might  wish  to  change  places  with  you.  I  should 
like  to  be  able  to  choose  my  place,  as  you  can." 

"  Maybe  I  should  like  to  choose  my  place,  as  you  can,"  said 
Miss  Ammah.  "  No,  France  Everidge,  we  should  n't  either  of 
us  like  it.  You,  and  I  too,  would  rather  do  our  own  going 
without  than  anybody  else's  having." 

France  stood  still  and  silent.  The  sun  was  striking  level 
now.  It  shone  rosy  upon  her,  and  in  at  the  doorway  behind, 
lighting  up  the  old  pleasant  hall.  It  shone  upon  Rael  Hey- 
brook  too  ;  it  seemed  suddenly  to  light  them  up  to  each  other. 
Miss  Ammah  was  below  in  the  shadow  of  a  maple-tree  that, 
itself  all  tipped  with  fire  by  the  first  ripeness  of  autumn,  filled 
the  right-hand  corner  of  the  dooryard. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Kingsworth  would  say,"  said  Kael,  "  that  we 
could  n't  go  without,  without  having  had  in  some  sense  already." 
"  Why  don't  you  say  it  yourself,  Mr.  Rael  1 "  France  asked, 
turning  to  him  quickly.  She  meant  why  did  n't  he  assume 
his  own  perception,  instead  of  attributing  it  to  one  who  he 
fancied  might  more  properly  assume. 

Israel  answered  her  almost  as  quickly.  "  I  do  say  it ! "  and 
he  looked  down  at  her  from  his  fine  height  as  she  lifted  her 
eyes  toward  him.  "  I  do  say  that  I  would  rather  go  without 
the  best  that  has  ever  come  to  me  to  know  of  than  never  to  have 
known  anything  about  it." 

He  might  mean  a  score  of  things,  —  opportunity,  knowledge, 
life  among  men  of  knowledge,  a  breadth  of  action  that  he  could 
plan  or  imagine ;  perhaps  he  thought  he  did  mean  them  all. 
But  the  sunlight,  like  the  truth,  shot  them  through  and 


244  ODD,  OK   EVEN  ? 

through.  Something  warmed  at  both  their  hearts,  though  each 
but  felt  it  for  each  self,  and  only  saw  the  other  standing  in  the 
splendor. 

Coming  down,  they  met  Bernard  Kingsworth  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  where  they  struck  out  upon  the  roadway.  He  was 
going  down  to  the  farm.  They  paired  for  the  remainder  of  the 
walk,  —  Mr.  Kingsworth  with  France,  Miss  Ammah  with  Israel. 
Miss  Ammah  had  been  very  shy  of  any  tete-a-tete  with  Bernard 
all  the  week  ;  it  was  very  much  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  an  offer 
to  herself.  She  was  afraid  of  being  appealed  to  ;  she  thought 
the  next  step  on  Bernard  Kingsworth's  part  would  very  likely 
be  to  say  something  to  her.  She  had  kept  close  to  France  when 
France  was  by ;  she  had  chaperoned  herself  so  effectually  that 
she  had  quite  effectually  defended  the  girl  also. 

They  were  in  the  valley  now,  the  comparative  valley  between 
these  high  tops  of  two  of  the  multitudinous  hills  ;  the  light  was 
dimming,  and  that  quick  chill  was  falling  that  does  drop  so 
instantly  below  the  heights. 

France  was  pale ;  she  was  tired  with  her  long  walk.  Mr. 
Kingsworth  offered  her  his  arm.  No,  she  thanked  him;  her 
stick  was  a  good  help. 

Rael  had  cut  the  stick  for  her  to  come  down  the  hill  with. 
She  had  refused  his  arm  also.  She  would  take  nobody's  arm. 

Sarell,  just  returned,  met  them  in  the  dooryard ;  it  was  past 
the  tea  time,  all  was  ready  on  the  table,  and  Sarell  said  a  word 
privately  to  France  as  they  passed  in  at  the  porchway.  France 
said  it  again  to  Miss  Ammah  upstairs,  and  they  hurried  in,  tak 
ing  off  their  hats. 

Mr.  Kingsworth  sat  by  at  the  tea-drinking ;  he  had  had  his 
own  early,  at  the  parsonage.  He  had  supposed  he  was  coming 
for  an  early  evening  call. 

They  managed  the  meal  speedily ;  it  was  so  pleasant  on  the 
piazza,  the  after-light  was  coming  on,  and  the  two  ladies  had 
had  that  transmitted  little  word. 

But  Miss  Ammah  was  left  alone  with  the  minister  this  time. 
France  slipped  away  into  the  kitchen,  and  Miss  Ammah,  after 
that  whisper,  had  not  a  word  to  say  in  her  hindrance. 

Mrs.  Heybrook  was  in  her  bedroom. 


PLANS,    A   PLOT,    AND  A   PLEADING.  245 

So  France  was  there  with  Sarell  when  Rael  came  in  with  the 
milk-pails.  Sarell  was  putting  the  last  clean  cups  on  the  tray. 
She  had  been  very  quick  with  the  dish-washing.  Perhaps  one 
reason  for  that  appeared  in  a  couple  of  damp  towels  that  France, 
sitting  by  the  corner  of  the  table,  had  not  yet  laid  out  of  her 
hands.  She  hung  them  on  a  low  rack  at  the  table  end  as  Rael 
entered. 

"  Don't  lisp  it,"  Sarell  had  just  said  in  a  whisper.  "  It 's  too 
bad,  comin'  right  on  top  o'  the  other,  but  I  must ;  I  '11  be  back 
'fore  she  knows  it  in  the  mornin'.  An'  the  bread  c'n  wait. 
You  sh'll  hev  cream-biscuit  f  r  breakfuss,  an'  there  '11  be  a  biled 
brown  loaf  f 'r  dinner.  'T  ain't  anything  't  I  c'n  help,  y'  see. 
Time  an'  tide  an'  babies  waits  f 'r  nobody's  lezhure.  Slim  chance 
f  r  em 'f  the' did." 

"  Has  mother  come  home  ?"  asked  Rael,  going  through. 

"  Yiss,  she  hez,"  Sarell  whispered  at  him  in  a  forcible  manner, 
with  a  side-reach  toward  him  over  her  shoulder  as  she  wrung 
her  dishcloth.  "  She  's  come  home  with  a  headache,  an'  I  've 
made  her  go  to  bed  ;  an'  the  smarter  she 's  let  alone,  the  smarter 
she  '11  git  up  in  the  mornin'.  You  'd  as  good  's  keep  out  o'  the 
kitchen,  ef  y'  can,  an'  keep  th'  rest  out." 

Rael  passed  on  quietly  into  the  buttery  with  his  milk  ;  they 
heard  him  pour  it  softly  into  the  pans.  Sarell  slipped  up  the 
shed-way  stairs  to  her  own  chamber.  France  sat  still  in  the  still 
kitchen.  The  girl  came  down  in  a  minute  with  shawl  and  straw 
hat  on  and  went  quickly  out  the  back  way.  Her  sister  lived 
half  a  mile  off,  across  the  hills ;  and  a  little  soul,  not  waiting  for 
anybody's  leisure,  was  coming  into  the  world  to-night.  She 
forgot  the  milk-pails  that  wanted  scalding.  Rael  had  set  them 
down  so  gently  that  there  was  no  clatter  to  remind  her ;  then 
he  had  gone  away  again  toward  the  barns. 

France  made  sure  of  that ;  then  she  lifted  a  tin  kettle  of  hot 
water  from  the  stove,  and  went  round  into  the  buttery.  She 
scalded  the  pails,  rubbed  them  bright  with  a  clean  towel  she 
found  there,  and  set  them  ready  for  the  morning  milking. 

A  certain  odd  delight  touched  her,  doing  this  homely  work, 
as  if  she  had  been  a  sister  in  the  house.  "  How  pleasantly 
these  farm-people  help  one  another,  and  take  the  work  up 
from  each  other's  hands  !  "  she  thought.  "  It  seems  as  if 


246  ODD,  OB  EVEN? 

their  life  together  must  mean  more  than  ours  does,  sitting  in 
our  drawing-rooms." 

She  had  left  Mr.  Kingsworth  and  Miss  Ammah  together  a 
good  while.  Perhaps  she  had  been  partly  not  unwilling,  for 
that  very  reason,  to  make  herself  helpful  to-night  to  Sarell. 
Most  people  have  their  moods.  France  certainly  had  hers. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Kingsworth's  being  there  may  have  been  partly 
a  reason,  also,  why  Ilael  went  off  into  the  barns  again.  The 
minister  was  his  friend,  but  he  wanted  to  think  things  over  just 
now  that  he  was  not  quite  ready  to  talk  of. 

Mr.  Heybrook  and  Lyman  were  out  by  the  north-lot  fence, 
talking  about  to-morrow's  work.  Rael  said  something  to  them 
as  he  went  by.  France  found  herself  left  quite  alone,  —  the 
"  men-folks "  not  gathering,  as  they  were  wont  to  do,  in  the 
broad  shed-stoop.  Something  new  came  into  her  head. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  waiting  till  it  happens,  and  then  not 
being  let  1 "  she  said.  "  I  '11  do  it  once,  any  way.  I  '11  take 
what  Mr.  Rael  calls  the  '  advantage.'  " 

The  yeast-jug  was  in  the  buttery  by  the  cool  window ;  she 
knew  the  way  to  the  flour-barrel ;  the  bread-pan  was  in  the 
pantry.  She  had  watched  Mrs.  Heybrook  at  her  mixing  a 
dozen  times.  She  gathered  all  in  the  outer  room,  she  turned 
her  muslin  sleeves  up  to  the  shoulders,  and  pinned  them  there. 
In  five  minutes  she  was  rolling  and  coaxing,  with  some  distant 
respect  certainly,  lest  she  should  get  deeper  in  than  seemed 
nice  to  her,  a  mass  of  cleanxsoft  dough  upon  the  moulding- 
board.  She  touched  her  hands  softly  to  the  sifted  flour,  she 
took  a  pretty  way  of  her  own  with  the  working,  she  beckoned 
with  her  finger-tips,  she  rolled  lightly  off  with  bended  wrists, 
she  rounded  up  again  with  rounded  palms,  she  grew  bold  and 
intimate  in  her  touch  only  as  she  found  out  her  control,  and 
that  the  globe  she  was  shaping  grew  coherent  with  itself,  and 
she  could  keep  dry  out  of  chaos.  She  felt  a  splendid  power 
and  independence  all  at  once.  It  was  a  grand  thing  to  make 
bread.  That  was  what  always  broke  down  at  home  when  the 
cook  went. 

Bread  and  butter !  What  queens  these  country  house-wives 
were,  with  their  pure,  sweet  churnings  and  their  delicate 
bakings ! 


PLANS,   A  PLOT,   AND  A  PLEADING.  247 

Her  spirit  and  enterprise  rose  audaciously.  Already  a  per 
fectly  intrepid  notion  seized  her.  It  drove  out  of  her  head 
what  she  had  been  thinking  while  she  wiped  up  the  dishes. 

About  Bernard  Kingsworth,  and  why  she  was  not  always 
more  glad  to  see  him ;  why  some  curious  little  difference  in 
him  the  last  few  times  they  had  met  had  wrought  a  difference 
in  her  that  she  could  not  help,  and  made  her  seem  again, 
and  more  than  ever,  to  hold  him  in  two  quite  separate  places 
in  her  mind,  the  one  becoming  almost  antagonistic  to  the  other. 
Why,  with  all  his  uplifting  and  that  touch  of  his  thought  that 
kindled  hers  so  swiftly  into  enthusiasm,  with  all  she  knew  of 
his  good  and  noble  life  here,  with  all  that  the  height  of  her 
caught  and  reflected,  as  the  hill-tops  caught  the  sunlight,  she 
was  more  comfortable  to  have  it  all  come,  as  the  sunlight 
comes,  through  a  certain  atmosphere  of  distance,  and  without 
reminder  that  there  was  anything  else  but  that  pure,  ineffable 
outshining  in  his  whole  being  and  existence.  Why  was  she 
fancifully  impatient  of  that  black  coat  of  his,  and  the  very  tie 
of  his  cravat,  and  of  noticing  the  cut  of  his  shoes  and  the  little 
rim  of  dust  that  gathered  on  them  in  his  long  walk  over  the 
hill  down  here  to  see  them  1 

Why,  —  a  sudden  recollection  of  him  sitting  out  there  with 
Miss  Ammah  brought  the  whys  all  up  again,  and  mixed  them 
with  her  bread-mixing  now,  notwithstanding  her  fine,  bold  plan 
that  had  just  scattered  them,  —  why  were  not  the  little  per 
sonalities  about  him,  —  the  personalities  of  a  gentleman,  —  why 
were  not  the  ways  of  his  speech  and  movement,  instinct  always 
with  the  sincerity  and  strength  and  nobleness  that  she  felt  sure 
of  in  him,  so  interesting  to  her  as  —  for  instance  —  Rael  Hey- 
brook's  plain,  bravely-worn  work  ing- dress,  his  honest  word,  a 
little  reserved  with  proud  humility,  his  delicate  act  and  ready 
courage,  his  quiet  waiting  and  patience  and  self-training,  bis 
manly  upreaching  in  the  midst  of  common  toil,  forced  her  to 
acknowledge  them  to  be  1 

She  would  not  come  nearer  home  than  that.  She  would  not 
ask  why  she  had  sung  in  the  boat  with  Rael,  when  she  had  only 
felt  that  shadow  of  a  calm  protection,  that  thrill  of  the  spirit 
rather  than  of  a  girl's  heart,  as  she  stood  by  Bernard  Kings- 


248  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

worth  under  the  coming  storm,  or  sat  by  his  side  in  the  little 
tent  among  the  birches  and  cedars. 

She  set  one  off  against  the  other ;  she  put  one  in  the  other's 
place,  and  asked  herself  questions. 

Those  subtile  delicacies  that  she  had  known  the  young  far 
mer  show,  would  n't  Mr.  Kingsworth  have  shown  them  too  l\ 
Would  n't  he  have  helped  her  down  from  the  mowing-machine, 
and  walked  up  the  hill  with  her,  that  day,  ignoring  the  prank 
of  it  and  her  torn  gown  1  Certainly,  he  was  a  gentleman  bred. 
But  here  was  a  gentleman  born.  To  be  born  and  bred  among 
gentlefolks  unfortunately  takes  away  the  chance  of  proving 
this  so  conspicuously.  She  settled  that  point  that  way. 

And  then,  for  bravery.  Suppose  Mr.  Kingsworth  had  been 
driving  her  down  those  ledges  when  the  polestrap  broke  1  He 
would  have  behaved  well.  She  had  no  idea  that  he  was  a 
physical  any  more  than  a  moral  coward.  He  had  faced  light 
ning  serenely  ;  but  she  could  not  exactly  imagine  him  flinging 
himself  down  into  the  melee  of  hoofs  and  wheels,  as  Rael  had 
done.  He  would  have  gone  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  with  her 
probably,  and  met  fate  like  a  Christian.  Well1?  Yes,  that 
would  be  splendid,  in  its  way,  too,  but  she  liked  Rael's  way. 

Liked  ]  Something  touched  her  sharply  at  that  word.  Nev 
ertheless,  her  thought  hurried  itself  on. 

Mr.  Kingsworth'  would  be  uncorrnpt  in  his  integrity,  that 
was  beyond  the  saying.  In  such  a  matter  as  that  bargain,  now, 
he  would  be  as  fair  as  daylight,  as  fair  as  Rael.  Well  1  Why 
couldn't  she  care  so  very  much  about  it,  if  he  would. 

Care  ?     Then  she  argued  deliberately. 

"  I  suppose  it  must  be  because  it  is  all  of  course  with  a 
clergyman.  You  expect  him  to  be  up.  I  don't  suppose  an 
angel  would  make  me  feel  as  an  angel-like  mortal  would. 
Climbing  is  always  finer  than  being  on  the  top,  one  knows  not 
how.  It  is  like  the  people  in  social  places  earned  or  made  for 
them  somehow  beforehand,  compared  with  the  middle  ones  that 
are  doing  the  things  that  are  making  the  places  for  by  and  by.  I 
suppose  nothing  ever  is  at  the  very  topmost ;  but  if  it  pretends 
to  be,  you  despise  it ;  and  if  you  fancy  it  is,  it  does  n't  seem 
to  take  hold  of  you  anywhere.  It  is  the  very  reason  of  the 


PLANS,   A   PLOT,   AND  A  PLEADING.  249 

'  coming  down  into  the  midst '  that  he  told  us  about  the  other 
day.  The  Lord  Himself  had  to  come  down  into  the  middle, 
between  His  own  self  and  us,  or  we  should  never  have  found 
our  way  —  " 

That  was  where  she  stopped  thinking  altogether.  She  found 
herself  where  it  hardly  seemed  lawful  to  be. 

So  she  punched  her  finger  into  her  bread-ball,  now,  as  she 
had  seen  Mrs.  Heybrook  do,  and  it  made  a  clean  drill-hole ;  and 
she  knew  that  the  kneading  was  done.  She  covered  it  up  with 
a  large  cloth,  fresh  from  the  line,  gathered  her  things  tidily 
together  and  left  them  so,  slid  off  through  the  house  and  up 
stairs,  washed  her  hands,  turned  down  her  sleeves,  came  down 
and  out  at  the  front  door,  and  went  after  Lyman.  "  It 's  a 
good  thing  I  've  got  my  feet  again,"  she  said. 

But  when  she  found  Lyman  up  by  the  turkey-coops,  she  was 
glad  to  sit  down  on  a  rock  that  sloped  out  from  the  old  garden 
wall. 

"  I  've  got  a  plot,  Lyman,"  she  said,  "  and  you  're  in  it." 

"  Give  me  my  latitude  and  longitude,  then,"  said  Lyman, 
putting  one  knee  up  on  the  low  stones  near  her,  and  sitting 
side  wise  upon  them. 

"  The  long  and  short  of  it,  that  is,"  said  France.  "  Well ; 
there  is  a  long  and  a  broad.  It 's  serious,  and  it 's  good  fun. 
The  serious  part  is,  your  mother 's  tired  out ;  and  if  we  don't 
make  a  chance  for  her  to  be  sick  in,  if  she  wants  to,  she  '11  be 
sick  without  any  chance  at  all." 

"  I  've  seen  it,'1  said  Lyme ;  and  his  voice  had  the  longitude 
in  it ;  the  almost  invariable  fun  was  quite  dropped  out. 

"  It  would  worry  and  disappoint  her  if  we  were  to  go  away ; 
and  besides  that,  she  has  nursed  us  both,  and  now  it 's  our  turn. 
To-morrow  is  butter-day." 

"  By  George,  it  is  !  And  father  and  I  had  laid  out  to  go  and 
cut  that  bass-wood,  and  get  it  to  the  saw-mill,  so  as  to  have  it 
drying  out  for  the  finish  of  the  new  shed-chamber  we  're  going 
to  fix  up  next  spring." 

"  Could  you  get  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning?" 

"  I  reckon.     Why  1 " 

"  Because  I  could.     And  because  I  can  work  butter.     I  've 


250  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

done  it,  a  little,  for  fun,  and  now  I  want  to  do  the  whole  of  it, 
in  earnest.  I  'd  like  to  know,  and  to  establish  the  self-evidence, 
that  I  'm  equal  to  the  responsibility  of  bread  and  butter.  If 
you  '11  bring  the  things  somewhere  where  it  won't  wake  them 
all  up,  and  if  you  '11  help  churn,  I  '11  have  the  butter  all 
lumped  out  before  Sarell  gets  round  in  the  morning.  And  I  've 
thought  what  a  nice  place  that  new  corn-barn  would  be  for  my 
dairy.  See  ? " 

Lymau  could  n't  see  very  much,  of  her  face,  for  instance, 
literally ;  for  the  dusk  had  deepened ;  but  he  looked  at  her  as 
if  he  would  see  what  this  new  turn  and  aspect  made  of  her. 
There  was  a  neat,  lively,  decided  little  poise  to  her  head  and 
neck  ;  he  could  discern  that. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder  if  you  'd  put  it  through,"  he  said,  with 
his  balanced  slowness.  "Do  you  know  how  many  things  you 
want  for  a  dairy  1  It 's  considerable  of  a  move." 

"  I  know.  It 's  real  good  of  you,  Lyme ;  there  '11  be  the 
churn,  with  the  cream  in  it,  and  the  pail  of  water,  and  the  ice, 
and  the  wooden  bowl  and  the  butter-spats,  and  a  table  or  a 
board  or  something,  I  suppose.  Oh,  and  some  salt,  and  a  spoon 
ful  of  sugar.  But  I  '11  see  to  that.  Yes ;  it  is  really  good  of 
you."  She  emulated  his  own  slowness  and  tranquillity. 

"  Present,  indicative,  hey  ?  well,  perhaps  I  'd  as  good  go  and 
make  it  so ;  or  else  it  '11  have  to  be  two  o'clock  in  the  room  of 
three.  How  '11  you  get  up  and  out,  without  stirring  anybody  1 
Mother  sleeps  light  toward  mornin'." 

"  I  'm  coming  down  by  the  roof  and  the  maple-tree  and  the 
piazza-rail.  Now,  if  you  ever  tell  anybody  !  " 

"  /  should  n't  let  on,"  said  Lyme  gravely.  "  I  've  got  to 
creep  down  the  long  back  roof  from  the  attic,  myself.  If  I 
should  slip,  would  n't  they  think  it  was  thunder  !  " 

"  Lyman,  if  you  do  slip,  I  '11  never  forgive  you  ! " 

She  got  up  at  that  and  moved  toward  the  house.  It  was 
quite  time  to  show  herself,  at  least,  to  Miss  Ammah  and  the 
minister.  She  met  Mr.  Kingsworth  coming  up  across  the  grass- 
plot.  She  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  I  've  been  busy,"  she  said.  "  There  were  things  I  had  to 
do.  And  I  've  been  talking  with  Lyman ;  that  was  business 


PLANS,    A   PLOT,    AND    A   PLEADING.  251 

too.  I  meant  to  have  come  out ;  but  you  and  Miss  Ammah,  I 
suppose,  —  " 

"  Were  busy  also,"  said  the  minister.  "  Yes.  The  evening 
is  very  lovely ;  would  you  mind  a  little  turn  up  the  hill  here, 
now,  while  I  tell  you  what  we  were  talking  of1?  "  He  had  turned 
to  walk  down  with  her,  but  he  paused  a  little  as  he  spoke,  and 
stood  beside  her  in  the  clear  moonlight  that  was  brilliant  now, 
nearing  close  upon  the  full. 

"  Had  n't  we  better  go  back  to  Miss  Ammah  1 "  France 
asked,  with  an  apprehension. 

"  I  would  like  to  say  it  to  yourself,"  said  Bernard  Kingsworth. 

"  I  don't  think  I  had  better  walk  any  more  now,"  said 
France.  "  I  am  a  little  tired." 

"  I  ought  to  have  remembered  it !  Of  course  you  are  doing 
too  much  ! "  And  he  came  close  to  her  with  an  offered  arm. 
She  could  not  help  taking  it,  then;  they  walked  up  to  the 
piazza-end. 

Miss  Ammah  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  She  had  said  good 
night  to  the  minister,  and  had  gone  upstairs.  Mr.  Kingsworth 
perceived  that  it  was  hardly  a  time  to  keep  the  girl.  "  May  I 
come  to-morrow  ?  "  he  asked. 

France  was  silent  just  long  enough  for  silence  to  be  conscious. 
"  I  would  like  to  say  it  to  yourself,"  and  "  may  I  come  to-mor 
row  ? "  were  phrases  and  a  position  that  she  could  not  be 
silly  enough  to  misunderstand.  Yet  she  could  assume  nothing, 
even  to  refuse  it.  Poor  France  !  It  was  her  first  time.  It  had 
come  upon  her  all  of  a  sudden.  Just  after  all  that  thinking 
and  comparison,  too.  Was  this  what  they  had  been  premoni 
tory  of  1  She  felt  hot  and  frightened.  She  wished  she  could 
run  away  to  her  mother. 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  do  not  know  what  to 
say,"  she  said. 

She  stood  at  the  upper  of  the  two  steps,  in  the  deep  shade  of 
a  maple-tree.  Mr.  Kingsworth  had  paused  ;  he  looked  up  at 
her  from  just  below,  as  he  waited  on  the  grass-sward.  He  could 
not  sec  her  face  quite  plainly  now  ;  yet  he  looked  up,  and  knew 
that  she  was  looking  down.  He  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
stood  bareheaded  before  her  while  she  answered  him.  Then, 
when  those  hesitating  words  came,  he  stepped  quickly  nearer. 


252  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

"It  is  not  fair  that  you  should  have  to  speak  at  all,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  come  to-morrow ;  then,  if  you  like,  you  can  send 
me  away." 

Every  word  told  the  story,  quite  clearly,  beforehand. 

"  Good-night."     He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Stop,  Mr.  Kingsworth  !  I  must  say  something.  It  would 
be  better  for  me  to  make  a  silly  mistake  than  to  let  you  make 
a  —  painful  one.  If  this  is  —  can  possibly  be  —  a  question  — 
between  you  and  me  —  " 

Of  course,  he  could  not  let  her  force  herself  to  anticipate  him. 
Her  words,  too,  began  to  tell  the  story,  more  instantly  than  he 
could  bear,  on  her  side.  He  must  plead  a  little  now. 

"  It  is  a  question  from  me  to  you,"  he  said.  "  The  question  of 
my  life." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Kingsworth,  don't  think  so  !  Don't  ask  it !  " 

"Don't  answer  it,  Miss  France,  quite  yet.  Wait  —  let  me 
wait.  Ask  yourself — 

France  did  it  all.  She  waited  ;  she  let  him  wait ;  she  asked 
herself.  She  did  it  in  the  breathing-time  of  half  a  dozen 
breaths  ;  rather,  it  was  done  within  her,  or  before  her  mental 
vision.  It  was  all  clear  now.  Why,  —  yes,  all  those  whys  that 
had  been  haunting  her,  conflicting  with  her  true,  high  estimate 
of  this  man  ;  as  regarded  him,  all  things  suddenly  took  their  cer 
tain  place  and  relation.  Her  tenderest  veneration  of  him  re 
turned  ;  the  little,  ridiculous  distastes  vanished ;  he  stood 
before  her,  asking  what  she  was  not  worthy  to  bestow  —  what 
she  had  not  in  her  to  bestow.  That  was  the  perplexity,  the 
hindrance,  between  them  that  must  be  put  away. 

One  has  seen  a  great  landscape  that  one  did  not  know  was 
there  suddenly  declare  itself  in  sharp  delineation  under  a  light 
ning  flash  in  a  space  that  had  been  void  and  black,  whose 
range  one  could  not  even  have  calculated,  an  instant  before. 
It  was  in  such  a  way  that  all  the  possibilities  of  her  life  seemed 
instantly  to  take  shape  before  France,  in  the  showing  of  this 
vital  question  that  was  flashed  upon  them  ;  and  in  them  all  she 
could  not  anywhere  behold  herself  as  belonging,  in  this  wise,  to 
Bernard  Kingsworth.  She  did  not  belong  to  him.  It  was  his 
mistake. 


PLANS,    A   PLOT,    AND   A   PLEADING.  253 

Into  this  momentary  mirage  she  did  not  look  to  see  what  else 
might  be.  These  phantasmas  are  but  given  for  an  instant  to 
the  searching  and  answering  of  a  single  demand.  They  meet 
that  absolutely  ;  then  they  close  and  vanish  again,  and  we  walk 
on  in  all  other  concernings  as  if  we  had  not  seen. 

As  France  saw,  she  spoke ;  as  if  she  had  seen  and  pondered 
a  long  while,  and  the  words  had  been  all  ready,  and  not  an 
answer  to  a  great  surprise. 

"  I  am  so  sure  of  my  own  mind,  Mr.  Kingsworth,"  she  said 
slowly,  too  earnest  to  be  shy  ;  and  then,  perceiving,  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  all  the  rest,  how  considered  her  assertion  might  ap 
pear,  "  Things  come  certain  in  a  moment,"  she  went  on,  still 
with  the  quietness  of  clear-seeing  and  truth-telling,  and  the 
strength  of  a  wonderful  forward  move  of  her  woman's  life  in  her 
in  those  six  breaths.  "This  does,  that  I  could  not  have  thought 
of,  and  that  never  happened  to  me  before.  I  am  not  fit  for  it ; 
it  is  a  great  deal  more  than  ought  to  come  to  me ;  that  is  why 
I  cannot  take  it." 

Bernard  Kingsworth  mistook.  "  You  can't  expect  me  to  be 
satisfied  with  that,"  he  said.  "  I,  who  know  myself,  and  who 
see  you  as  you  do  not  see  yourself.  You  can't  expect  me  even 
to  consider  such  a  word  as  that.  It  is  I  who  ask,  who  want  to 
take  a  great  gift.  I  am  not  '  offering  myself,' "  he  went  on  rap 
idly,  with  something  of  a  light  play  on  a  phrase  he  quoted  scorn 
fully,  "I  am  beseeching  yourself — of  you." 

"  I  have  not  myself  to  give.  I  mean,"  she  hurried,  "  that  if 
I  could  give,  I  should  know  that  it  was  given  already ;  and  I 
know  that  it  is  not.  0  Mr.  Kingsworth  !  I  am  only  a  half- 
grown  girl,  and  you  are  —  I  am  ashamed  !  Don't  think  I  don't 
know  how  far  you  are  beyond  me  !  " 

"  Only  in  this  one  thing,"  he  said  sadly,  "  that  I  cannot  bring 
you  beside  me  in.  Let  it  all  be.  I  may  come  another  time,  as 
I  have  come  1 " 

France  did  not  answer  a  word  to  that.  What  could. she  sayl 
While  she  wondered,  her  time  was  gone.  He  would  not  press 
her  silence  ;  it  was  too  nearly  an  answer  in  itself. 

He  put  forth  his  hand  to  her  again.  She  gave  him  hers, 
meeting  his  movement  with  a  kindness  that  she  could  not  help, 


254  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

—  that  he  could  hardly,  either,  misunderstand.  "  Good-night," 
she  said. 

Compunction,  gratitude,  a  great  respect,  were  in  her  tone ;  a 
•wistful  clinging  to  a  valued  friendship,  but  not  a  whit  of 
woman's  love.  Pained  and  embarrassed  as  she  had  been,  her 
hand  did  not  tremble  ;  it  gave  itself  frankly,  heartily,  but  with  a 
controlled  reserve.  His  did  not  tremble  either ;  but  it  clasped 
hers,  and  held  it  clasped  an  instant  with  a  mute  language.  It 
was  hard  to  let  go,  with  that  hand-clasp,  all  hold  upon  a  possi 
ble  hope  ;  and  yet  France's  fingers  were  so  quietly,  calmly 
withdrawing. 

In  that  instant  Israel  Heybrook  came  out  from  the  corner 
door  in  the  house-angle  upon  the  piazza  behind,  perceived  the 
two  figures  standing  there  so,  and  retreated. 

France  heard.  A  quick  half-turn  of  her  head  showed  her 
who  it  was,  just  as  he  was  gone  again. 

If  he  were  not  gone,  there  was  no  explaining. 

Was  there  any  explaining  to  Bernard  Kingsworth  of  the  start 
and  thrill  that  changed  her  gentle  withdrawing  into  a  palpable 
recoil,  and  the  release  of  the  hand  he  held  almost  into  some 
thing  suddenly  resentful  ] 

There  had  hardly  been  need  of  greatly  disconcerted  shyness. 
She  had  but  been  saying  in  reality,  as  it  might  have  seemed  to 
anybody,  the  frankest,  simplest  good-night. 

It  was  not  shyness.  It  was  a  positive  shock,  in  which  her 
calm,  careful  kindness  turned  to  some  conscious  dismay ;  a 
swift,  absolute  revulsion  from  the  reality  that  had  been  between 
them. 

It  was  the  electric  apprehension  of  but  a  point  of  time ;  it 
could  hardly  be  recalled  clearly  to  be  judged  of.  Yet  Bernard 
Kingsworth  had  to  think  over  and  over  long  after  what  it  might 
have  meant. 

For  France,  there  remained  one  single  question.  She  scarcely 
knew  how  Mr.  Kingsworth  left  her.  The  question  was,  What 
would  Rael  Heybrook  think "? 

She  had  enough  now  to  make  her  short  night  wakeful,  beside 
her  dairy  plot  and  her  three  o'clock  uprising. 

And  there  was  to  be  rather  more  in  that  also  for  her  than 
she  foresaw. 


DAY-DAWN  IN  THE  DAIRY.  255 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

DAY-DAWN   IN  THE  DAIRY. 

AFTER  an  hour  or  two  of  restlessness,  and  struggle  with  up- 
leaping  flashes  of  memory  and  suggestion  that  smote  across  her 
momentary  quietings  like  candle-flames  across  closed  eyes,  the 
light  came  to  France  that  composed  her.  How  absurd  she  had 
been  !  Of  course  he  would  see,  as  the  days  went  on.  It  could 
only  be  for  to-night,  to-morrow,  that  he  would  misunderstand. 
It  would  be  quite  plain  to  him,  knowing  what  he  must  know, 
that  it  had  ended  as  it  had.  Any  otherwise,  there  would  be 
more,  of  course  —  an  open  fact.  He  would  see  that  it  had 
stopped  there  where  it  had  begun. 

From  twelve  to  three  she  slept  tranquilly.  The  old  clock  in 
the  dining-room  roused  her  with  its  whirr  before  the  hour.  Al 
most  in  the  three  minutes'  grace  before  the  striking  she  was 
ready,  —  her  hair  tossed  into  a  large  net,  her  warm  woollen 
wrapper  on,  with  a  fresh  calico  gabrielle  buttoned  and  belted  over 
it,  her  feet  safely  dressed  and  protected.  She  crept  out  over  the 
shingles  from  the  window  close  opposite  the  maple-tree.  She  let 
herself  down  like  a  kitten,  with  a  soft,  light  drop  from  the  low 
ermost  branch  to  the  ground,  meeting  it  with  a  touch  as  if  feet 
and  earth  were  alike  elastic.  She  ran  to  the  clear  little  brook-pool 
among  the  elders  just  below  the  knoll,  and  made  a  delicious  face 
and  hand  bath  in  the  cold,  bright  water. 

The  air  was  trembling  out  of  stillness  with  the  first  low- 
stirring  notes  of  little  birds.  Away  down  in  the  woods,  the 
ceaseless  soft  cmsh  of  the  waterfalls  kept  up  its  gentle  diapase. 

The  mystery  of  night  was  upon  everything,  tenderly  and  won 
derfully  ;  the  greater,  dearer  mystery  of  day  was  being  born  again 
underneath  the  far  eastern  sky,  —  only  a  pale  shadow  of  light,  as 
it  were,  dividing  itself  from  the  moonlight  that  was  still  splendid 


256  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

in  the  west ;  both  together  they  made  just  a  soft  visibleness 
that  would  be  growing,  not  waning,  as  the  moon  would  be  melt 
ing  herself  to  a  mist-shape  of  her  own  round  shining. 

France  felt  the  rare,  subtile,  buoyant  charm  of  the  hour.  Life 
itself  took  a  new  outset.  Yesterday's  old  story  was  done  with. 
"  The  world  begins  over  again  every  day,"  she  said. 

Lyman  met  her,  as  she  walked  up  over  the  dew-fresh  turf, 
holding  her  skirts  from  the  wetness  of  the  grass,  whose  second 
growth  was  pushing  well. 

In  the  new  corn-barn,  with  its  wide-open  door  and  its  smell 
of  clean  pine,  all  was  dry  and  comfortable  and  ready.  Lyman 
had  been  churning.  He  helped  her  up  the  long  step,  and 
France  sat  down  on  the  sill,  her  feet  in  the  moonlight. 

"  I  should  like  to  sing,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  do,"  said  Lyman. 

"  No,  I  've  got  over  it,"  she  answered.  There  were  two  moods 
in  her  this  morning,  after  all. 

Perhaps  she  remembered  that  there  were  two  different  morn 
ings  that  she  knew  of  to-day,  marked  by  the  sun-tide  that  was 
rising  over  these  Fellaiden  hills.  How  many  more,  as  sepa 
rate  and  unconcordant,  on  the  round  earth  as  the  same  light 
swept  over  it  she  could  not  know,  and  the  thought  made  her 
shiver  suddenly. 

"  I  '11  churn,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  cold  —  a  little."  Then  she 
grew  warm  with  her  work,  and  the  motive  and  ambition  of  it, 
and  the  morning  turned  lovely  again. 

"  Why,  it  begins  to  swish  already ! "  she  cried,  and  stopped 
to  open  the  square  little  trap  in  the  churn,  "  Yes  ;  there  are 
crumbs  of  butter,  truly,  on  the  lid.  It  is  n't  much  work.  What 
shall  we  do  with  all  our  morning  when  it 's  done  *? " 

"  Eat  our  breakfast,  I  guess.  You  '11  be  hungry  enough  not 
to  wait  for  Miss  Amman.  Do  you  mean  to  get  up  like  this 
every  butter-day  1 " 

"  Not  if  they  '11  let  me  have  my  own  way  when  I  do  get 
up.  Otherwise,  they  '11  know  what  to  expect.  There,  if  you  're 
rested,  you  may  crank  a  little  now." 

"  It  is  crank  where  you  are,"  said  Lyman,  with  his  boy  free 
dom. 


DAY-DAWN   IN   THE   DAIRY.  257 

"  What  does  '  crank '  mean,  in  that  application  of  it  ? "  asked 
France.  "  I  don't  carry  my  Webster  in  my  pocket." 

"  Lively,  chirk,  chipper,  chirp,  chirruppy,  cheery,  jolly,"  he 
translated. 

"  Thank  you.     You  're  a  thesaurus." 

"  Sounds  as  if  I  was.     What  is  it  1 " 

"  A  treasury  —  everything,  all  you  want,  and  all  that  belongs 
to  it  under  the  sun." 

"  That 's  me,  about  as  near  as  you  could  get  to  it.  You  're 
smart.  Takes  common  folks  a  sight  of  a  while  to  find  out 
smartness.  This  butter 's  come ;  some  people  would  have 
churned  it  all  away  again.  Takes  smartness  to  know  where 
to  stop.  See  here,  clean  an'  good  an'  hard;  no  froth,  no 
bust." 

"  Oh,  what  is  '  bust '  1  Shall  we  ever  get  through  our  defini 
tions  1 " 

"  Bust  is  when  you  scatter  it ;  go  at  it  too  smart,  and  fast,  you 
know.  Comes  quick,  and  don't  fairly  come  at  all.  Here  you 
are  ! " 

And  the  rich,,  clinging  masses  were  out  in  the  big  wooden 
bowl. 

"  How  sweet  it  smells  !  How  pretty  it  is  to  do ! ''  said  France, 
working  hard  with  her  spaddle,  and  pressing  out  the  butter 
milk  dew  till  it  ran  down  in  clear,  thin  streams. 

"  We  must  have  some  to  drink,"  she  said.  "  Where  's  a  cup, 
or  something  1 " 

Lyman  had  brought  a  tumbler.  He  filled  it  from  the  churn, 
and  France  drank  it  foaming.  "  What  fun  it  is  to  live  on  a 
farm  !  "  she  said. 

"Should  you  like  it  always?"  asked  the  boy,  as  if  by  asking 
he  could  keep  her. 

She  could  answer  the  boy's  asking.  She  did  not  even  think 
how  different  it  would  have  been  if  he  were  a  man. 

"  I  like  it  better  than  any  living  I  ever  had  before,"  she 
said,  impetuously.  "  Living  is  all  covered  up  in  the  city,  as  the 
piece  of  the  real  world  is  that  the  city  is  built  on.  And  then 
people  have  to  go  back  to  it  in  books  and  pictures  and  poetry, 
and  theories  and  abstractions  and  sciences,  instead  of  things. 

17 


258  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

What 's  the  reason  the  facts  have  to  be  all  in  one  place,  and 
the  thoughts  in  another  ]  People  have  to  huddle  so  !  It 's  only 
creation  that  can  take  all  the  room  it  wants.  You  're  princes 
up  here,"  she  talked  on,  tossing  her  butter,  with  strong,  cheer 
ful  spats  for  emphasis.  "  These  are  the  parks  and  beautiful  es 
tates  ;  the  cities  are  crowds  of  alley-ways,  and  the  suburbs  are 
dooryards  !  Live  here  1  Would  I  be  a  queen  without  the 
bother  of  it  ]  Why,  Rael  —  " 

What  elf  of  the  air  popped  the  wrong  name  between  her  lips, 
a  name  she  never  used  ungarnished,  as  she  chattered  on  ? 
And  what  stopped  her  so  absolutely  at  the  sound  of  it]  And 
what  shadow  came  across  the  early  daylight  in  the  open  door 
way,  just  as  she  did  stop  ] 

Israel  Heybrook  stood  there.     Had  he  heard  it? 

He  had  heard  her  say  "  Would  I  be  a  queen  ] "  in  quick 
reply  to  her  own  emphatic  "  Live  here  1 "  whose  very  tone  had 
already  answered  itself.  He  put  it  with  what  he  had  seen  the 
night  before ;  and  he  thought  the  little  ardent  speech  was  the 
brimming  over  of  the  girl's  secret  gladness  in  what  she  knew 
was  to  be.  He  heai'd  his  name,  indeed ;  but  how  should  he 
notice  that  1  It  was  but  the  careless  substitution  of  the  one 
name  for  the  other,  both  of  which  stood  to  her,  indifferently,  as 
those  of  the  farmer's  boys. 

Well,  had  he  ever  dreamed  of  anything  else!  He  knew  he 
had  by  the  throb  that  started  in  him  when  that  home  name, 
without  the  "  Mr.,"  broke,  in  that  happy  accent,  from  her  lips. 

But  Rael  Heybrook  could"  bear  things.  He  was  not  a  baby, 
to  run  away  and  cry.  He  had  seen  something,  far  off,  and  yet 
near  enough  to  bless  him, —  and  it  is  to  be  thought  of,  how,  in 
two  separate  languages,  "to  wound"  and  "to  beatify"  have 
the  same  word  to  say  them, —  which  would  never,  in  the  different 
man  it  might  make  of  him,  depart  out  of  his  life.  His  man 
hood  had  recognized  womanhood  :  that  is  the  blessing  and  the 
wounding,  between  the  one  and  the  other ;  it  is  the  blow  and 
the  embrace  with  which  the  heavenly  ennobles  the  earthly ;  it 
is  the  divine  accolade. 

Rael  had  waked  and  thought,  some  hours  during  that  strange 
night ;  he  had  roused,  in  the  early  dimness,  to  a  strange  day, 


DAY-DAWN   IN   THE   DAIRY.  259 

different  from  all  his  other  days;  he  had  heard  that  thud  of 
the  churn,  as  he  lay  listening  and  thinking,  near  his  window 
open  into  the  still  air.  He  had  missed  his  brother  from  the 
opposite  cot-bed  in  the  large  attic  room ;  and  he  had  remem 
bered  with  prompt  self-reproach  the  need  there  was  to  antici 
pate  and  lighten  his  mother's  cares.  "  It 's  just  like  Lyme," 
he  said ;  and  he  hurried  his  own  clothes  on  and  came  out  to 
look  for  him,  and  see  what  on  his  own  part  he  might  do. 

But  to  find  France  there,  as  his  mother's  daughter  might 
have  been,  and  to  hear  those  words  :  it  made  him  wonder, 
somehow,  what  the  Lord  meant  by  it.  Why  must  this  all 
come  here  to  happen,  right  close  to  him,  and  drawing  his  soul 
into  it? 

And  he  stood  there  quietly  and  said,  in  his  ordinary  way, 
"So  there  are  two  of  you]  Miss  France,  I  didn't  know  you 
were  a  dairy-woman." 

"  0  Mr.  Rael !  "  She  had  what  they  call  a  woman's  wile 
after  all.  She  caught  up  her  self-possession  in  an  instant,  and 
spoke  with  a  pretty,  hypocritical  surprise.  "  No  ;  I  have  just 
found  it  out  myself.  And  I  think  to  be  a  dairy-woman,  in  a 
morning  like  this,  is  to  be  an  Eve  in  Paradise.  Why  didn't 
you  ever  tell  me  of  the  mornings  1 " 

"  I  thought  you  had  seen  them  pretty  often  for  yourself." 

"  Yes ;  at  six  o'clock.  But  the  morning  is  all  over  the!!." 
She  laid  her  last  smooth  roll  of  butter  into  the  bowl,  spread 
the  clean,  wet  cloth  upon  it,  dropped  the  spats  on  the  table, 
and  came  to  the  door. 

"  Look  at  those  clouds,  all  pink  and  flame  color !  They  were 
purple  a  little  while  ago,  with  bands  of  primrose  sky  between. 
Now,  there  is  a  great  fire  there ;  see  how  deep  it  looks,  as  if 
half  the  east  had  melted  and  dropped  in.  That 's  where  the 
phoenix  story  comes  from,  I  know.  See  how  the  sun  shoots  up 
real,  blazing  wings  !  He  's  coming,  coming  !  0,  look,  look  ! 
He  just  leaps  up,  out  of  that  hollow  in  the  hills.  And  nothing 
can  put  him  back  again,  one  single  second  !  This  day 's  begun, 
and  it  has  got  to  be ! " 

Perhaps  France  rushed  with  more  abandon  into  her  dawn- 
poetry,  that  she  felt,  on  this  first  meeting  with  Rael  Heybrook, 
after  last  night,  she  must  rush  into  something. 


260  ODD,   OE   EVEN? 

Then  Rael  blundered.  When  one  tries  to  cover  a  conscious 
ness  with  a  commonplace,  or  to  hide  an  underthought  with  a 
surface  one,  the  thing  underneath  crops  up  through  the  slight 
est  word  like  a  murder  stain.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  Ve  happy, 
Miss  France,"  he  said.  "  I  mean,  for  this  good  work  you  've 
done  for  my  mother." 

It  was  not  screening,  so  much  as  substitution  of  one  real 
feeling  for  another;  that  made  it  worse,  the  feeling  was  so 
evident.  Also,  those  two  treacherous  little  syllables,  "  I  mean," 
how  they  betrayed  him  with  their  explanation  and  apology ! 

The  dawn  was  red  on  both  their  faces.  The  sun  had  leaped 
forth  upon  them  with  a  vengeance. 

France  only  said,  with  her  morning  glee  all  dampened  down, 
"  It  was  pleasant  work  to  do,  and  pleasant  to  try  to  help  her. 
I  must  go  in  now." 

Lyman  was  putting  the  things  together ;  he  was  going  to 
carry  butter-bowl  and  churn  into  the  house.  Rael,  standing 
outside,  had  to  give  his  hand  to  France  and  help  her  down 
from  the  high  door-sill. 

Then  she  walked  away  to  the  piazza,  where  the  door  stood 
open  by  which  Rael  had  come  out ;  and  Rael  went  round  to 
the  kitchen  stoop  to  get  his  milk-pails.  The  cows  would  be 
down  the  lane  early  to-day. 

T^he  day  was  begun,  and  it  had  got  to  be.  Not  a  second  of 
it  could  be  put  back.  But  it  was  one  of  the  days  that  seem 
like  a  hard  wedge  in  life,  separating  other  days. 


IT  MUST  TAKE   CAKE  OF  ITSELF.  261 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IT  MUST   TAKE   CARE   OF   ITSELF. 

SARELL  came  home ;  she  was  in  the  kitchen  when  Israel  car 
ried  in  the  milk-pails.  In  a  little  red  farmhouse  of  three  rooms, 
half  a  mile  away  along  the  green,  rocky  hill-flank,  a  wonderful 
joy  had  begun,  and  this  was  a  day  of  genesis,  a  day  of  Eden. 
Yet  it  was  the  selfsame  day  that  shone  slowly,  hardly,  in  its 
splendor,  over  the  heads  of  these  three,  to  whom  its  sun,  as  it 
tracked  its  swerveless  course,  measured  spaces  like  the  spaces 
of  eternity.  For  these  three  had  each  seen  into  their  own  lives, 
into  the  asking  and  answering  of  them ;  had  caught,  had  be 
lieved  they  caught,  a  quick,  blinding  revelation  at  once  of 
what  might  be  and  what  must  be.  And  the  two  were  wholo 
firmaments  apart. 

It  was  a  sober  day  in  the  dwelling,  because  the  good  woman 
of  the  house,  the  good  neighbor  of  the  widely-scattered  country 
side,  was  "  too  tired  "  to  come  out  of  her  room.  "  Lazy,"  she 
called  herself ;  and  never  even  asked  who  churned  and  worked 
up  the  butter.  She  dozed  and  dozed,  and  did  n't  care  about 
any  food,  and  just  stayed  still  as  she  lay ;  as  Miss  Ammah  had 
done  the  day  the  fever  began  with  her.  She  would  not  have  the 
doctor ;  she  persisted  that  she  was  not  ill,  only  given  out  in  her 
strength ;  and,  indeed,  there  was  no  access  of  heat  and  fever ; 
she  was  simply  pale  and  prostrate.  They  tended  her  as  well 
as  she  would  permit  them,  and  kindly  let  her  be  still.  It  waa 
mother's  way,  Rael  said  ;  he  had  seen  her  so  before.  He  did 
not  think  it  was  the  fever.  She  had  never  had  a  fever  in  her 
life. 

In  the  afternoon  Israel  drove  down  to  the  lower  village  for 
the  usual  mail.  Farmer  Heybrook  and  Lyman  were  away  in 
the  upper  wood-lot,  cutting  their  basswood  timber.  Rael  came 


262 

home  with  the  letters ;  one  of  them  was  for  France,  directed  in 
the  tall,  strong  lettering  of  Mr.  Kingsworth's  handwriting. 
France  colored  scarlet  when  she  took  it  from  his  hand.  They 
all  knew  that  handwriting  so  well. 

She  had  not  expected  this,  at  any  rate.  But  how  explain 
that  she  did  not,  that -there  was  nothing  to  explain;  how  ex 
plain  about  her  blushing,  when  nobody  questioned,  nobody 
noticed,  apparently  1  Israel  Heybrook,  with  his  grave,  quiet 
face,  was  just  the  same  as  always  when  he  gave  it  to  her ;  and 
having  delivered  it,  turned  round  and  walked  away,  What 
was  there  for  him  to  ask,  or  for  her  to  say  ? 

What  did  the  minister  mean  by  it  ]  She  was  angry  with  the 
man  for  sending  her  this  letter  in  the  face  of  all  the  household, 
to  whom  she  could  account  for  nothing.  She  was  angry  with 
herself  for  caring  so.  She  was  provoked,  most  of  all,  that  she 
had  taken  it,  and  stood  there,  conscious  and  coloring.  Why 
had  n't  she  the  presence  of  mind  to  lay  it  down  on  the  table 
and  leave  it  lying  there,  that  he  might  see  it  was  nothing  to 
her ;  that  anybody  might  know  she  had  the  note ;  that  it 
might  be  about  a  book,  or  any  common  thing;  that  any  time 
would  do  to  read  it  ]  But  no  ;  her  evil  genius  had  held  her 
hands  and  her  breath  and  sent  that  sudden,  wretched  pulse  of 
hot  blood  all  over  her  to  tell  tales,  lying  tales  !  She  had  been 
helpless  under  it ;  then  she  had  run  up  stairs  rapidly,  as  soon 
as  Rael  had  turned  his  back,  but  had  not  passed  out  of  hearing; 
up  stairs  to  her  own  room,  where  she  flung  the  letter  across  the 
bed  and  it  fell  to  the  floor  behind  it,  and  she  herself  went 
across  to  the  farther  roof-window,  with  a  step  that  almost 
stamped,  dropped  down  on  her  knees  before  the  low  sill,  put 
her  elbows  on  it  and  her  cheeks  in  her  two  hands,  and  looked 
with  fixed,  furious  eyes  straight  away  into  the  farthest  line 
of  pale-blue,  misty  hills. 

It  was  a  horrid  day.  What  had  the  sun  come  up  for  at  all, 
that  morning  she  had  thought  so  beautiful  1 

Miss  Ammah  was  down  in  Mrs.  Heybrook's  room  with  her 
knitting-work  ;  there  was  that  one  scrap  of  comfort,  —  that  she 
could  behave  as  she  pleased  alone  up  here  this  hour,  and  pro 
voke  no  question.  Question  1  Why  did  n't  Miss  Ammah  at 


IT   MUST   TAKE   CARE   OF   ITSELF. 

least  ask  something  1  She  knew  what  the  minister  meant  to 
ask,  France  supposed.  Yet  what  good  would  that  do,  even  ] 
She  could  not  ask  it  out  before  them  all. 

Would  he  keep  coming,  and  writing,  and  not  taking  a  "  No  " 
for  an  answer  ?  She  forgot  all  about  his  beautiful  sermons,  and 
his  kindly,  helpful  talk,  and  the  worth  and  dignity  that  were, 
she  had  known  in  her  cool  moments,  so  far  above  her  own.  She 
forgot  to  be  thankful  or  pitiful.  He  had  made  her  blush  about 
him,  he  had  made  people  think  things  :  she  could  not  forgive 
him. 

Down  on  the  floor  was  that  letter  ;  she  remembered  it  after 
a  while,  and  that  she  would  have  to  open  and  read  it,  simply  to 
know  what  to  do  next.  To  think  of  having  to  go  abjectly  after 
it,  stooping,  groping  where  she  had  flung  it  off !  That  is  the 
meanest  thing  about  a  high  passion-flight ;  you  have  to  come 
down  out  of  it,  and  pick  up  or  smooth  out,  perhaps  carefully 
and  painfully  restore,  something  you  have  maltreated,  crushed, 
or  tossed  away.  Well  if  it  be  nothing  more  precious  or  sen 
tient  than  a  bit  of  written  paper  ! 

We  will  not  look  while  she  goes  down  after  it ;  while  she  finds 
and  opens  and  reads  it.  She  must  have  done  it ;  but  we  will 
not  curiously  intrude. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  only  wrote  that  he  was  going  a  day  or 
two  earlier  than  he  had  intended,  to  a  ministerial  exchange  with 
a  friend,  pastor  of  his  old  Massachusetts  parish,  who  needed  the 
mountains  for  awhile.  That  it  had  been  planned  in  the  spring, 
long  ago.  He  had  called  last  night  because  of  it;  because  he 
must  go  soon.  He  would  not  see  them  again  for  several  weeks. 
Perhaps,  when  he  returned  in  September,  they  would  be  gone. 

He  had  spoken  because  the  time  was  short.  That  was  what 
the  note  meant,  without  saying.  If  he  had  been  listened  to  as 
he  had  hoped,  there  would  have  been  a  few  days,  perhaps  a 
week,  of  happy  interval.  Perhaps  •  other  arrangements  could 
have  been  made  then,  for  this  time,  or  some  of  it,  that  now  he 
must  spend  away  from  Fellaideu.  All  this  was  clear  in  infer 
ence ;  but  he  did  not  say  it.  He  only  said,  "Good-by"  and 
"  God  bless  her." 

She  felt  the  generosity  of  it ;  she  was  ashamed  of  her  petu- 


264  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

lance,  her  wrathfulness.  She  had  insulted  this  man,  so  grandly 
her  superior,  though  he  would  never  know  it.  She  felt  as  if  she 
had  flung  his  forbearing  note  in  his  face. 

None  the  less  she  remembered  how  things  would  seem,  all 
that  long  time.  Nobody  to  contradict,  nothing  to  show  the 
mistake  of,  what  people  might  have  with  reason  guessed.  That 
no  other  letter  would  come  even,  they  might  not  know.  There 
were  three  of  them  to  fetch  the  mails,  as  might  happen,  be 
sides  the  morning  fetching  of  the  butcher  or  a  neighbor  coming 
back  from  the  mill,  and  a  letter  from  the  same  hand  might  not 
arrive  by  the  same  hand  twice  in  a  long  time.  He  —  she 
could  not,  in  common  sense,  keep  up  "  people  "  and  plurals  to 
herself  all  through  her  argument  —  he  never  would  ask  any 
other  messenger  what  letters  had  come  !  He,  Israel  Heybrook, 
•who  had  seen  the  parting,  and  had  brought  back  this,  would 
go  on  thinking  what  he  had  thought.  Welll  She  only  hated 
to  have  people  under  misapprehensions.  She  never  could  play 
a  joke  for  that  very  reason.  She  could  not  for  one  minute 
like  to  see  anybody  acting  or  feeling  in  a  mistake. 

She  was  behaving  like  a  goose  in  a  story-book  !  Why 
could  n't  the  simpletons  speak  out,  and  set  things  straight  ? 
That  was  what  she  asked  always  over  those  provoking  fictitious 
complications.  Why  not  walk  up  to  Israel  Heybroook  now, 
the  next  time  she  came  in  his  way,  and  say  coolly,  "  You  in 
ferred  something,  I  think,  the  other  evening, —  and  since, —  that 
was  not  true.  I  would  rather  you  should  know  it  is  not  "  1 

Because,  what  could  she  suppose  Israel  Heybrook  cared 
whether  it  were  true  or  not  1  And  how  could  she  let  him,  nay, 
how  could  she  let  herself  know  that  it  was  anything  to  her 
what  he  might  imagine  about  it? 

There  was  another  way.  She  could  drop  the  note,  half  un 
folded  as  it  lay  now,  upon  her  wool-basket.  She  could  hand  it 
to  Miss  Ammah  out  on  the  piazza  there,  when  Rael  might  be 
by.  She  could  say,  "  I  have  had  this  note  from  Mr.  Kings- 
worth.  He  is  going  away  for  awhile.  I  suppose  we  shall 
hardly  see  him  any  more." 

All  very  well,  if  it  had  only  waited  to  occur  to.  her  at  the 
proper  time,  and  so  been  genuine.  She  would  not  plan  it  be 
forehand,  be  ungenuine  for  all  Rael  Heybrook's  — 


IT   MUST   TAKE   CARE   OF   ITSELF.  265 

What? 

It  could  n't  have  occurred  to  her.  She  saw  that,  also.  There 
would  have  been  an  infinitesimal  space  of  time  between  the 
suggestion  and  the  act,  which  would  have  had  just  the  con 
scious  purpose  in  it  that  all  night  and  all  day  could  have  now, 
if  with  this  forethought  she  waited  for  her  opportunity  till 
to-morrow  afternoon. 

"  It  must  take  care  of  itself,"  she  said,  and  went  down  stairs 
and  set  the  tea-table. 

She  took  that  upon  her  then  and  there.  She  was  ready 
afterward  in  the  kitchen,  with  the  clean  towels  to  which  she 
had  found  her  way,  to  wipe  the  dishes  as  Sarell  washed.  Then 
she  said,  "  I  made  the  bread  last  night :  it  was  good.  Let  me 
make  it,  please,  every  night,  till  Mrs.  Heybrook  gets  rested 
again.  You  have  enough  to  do,  and  I  like  it." 

"  You  're  a  queer  kind  of  a  boarder,"  Sarell  answered,  looking 
at  her  sharply  with  the  blue  twinkle  of  her  shrewd  eyes. 


266  ODD,  OK 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"NOT   HALF    GOOD    ENOUGH." 

MBS.  HEYBROOK  did  not  get  rested,  neither  did  she  grow  more 
ill,  for  several  weeks.  It  was  a  low,  hidden,  prolonged  ailing ; 
rather  the  absence  of  asserted  sickness  than  sickness  itself,  which 
might  have  run  its  course  and  turned  to  convalescence  quicker. 
But  "all  that  ever  ailed  her  was  a  slow  tire,"  Mrs.  Hey  brook  said. 
"  She  had  n't  the  force  left  to  be  real  sick  with."  So  they  minis 
tered  to  her,  as  only  prostration  would  have  persuaded  her  to 
let  them  minister,  and  waited  for  the  force  to  come. 

"  That  girl  ain't  half  a  fool,"  Sarell  said  of  France,  one  day. 

"  Miss  Everidge  !  "  said  Israel  Heybrook,  with  unmistakable 
quick  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  yer  need  n't  put  no  blastin'  powder  under  yer  words. 
I  ain't  disrespectin'  her,  not  an  atom.  I  'd  blow  up  fer  her  as 
fast  as  anybody,  now,  though  I  did  n't  think  sech  gret  things  of 
her  when  she  fust  come,  steppin'  round  in  her  cambrics.  But 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  she  shines  out  now  !  It 's  the  sense  of  it ! 
She  don't  come  ketchin'  holder  things  she  don'  know  how ;  nor 
stan'  roun'  starin',  sayin',  '  Can't  I  do  this,  and  can't  I  do  that,' 
when  ye  'r  up  to  yer  eyes,  an'  want  all  yer  elber-room,  an'  she 
knows  she  can't.  She  jest  picks  up  a  corner  she  can  heft,  an' 
she  don't  leggo  on  't.  If  it 's  done  once,  it 's  done  every  day. 
You  c'n  depend  on  it,  an'  that 's  where  the  help  comes  in.  You 
c'n  count  up  the  rest  o'  y'r  time  clear.  She  's  got  one  thing 
after  another  ont'  her  end,  till  I  tell  you  the  teter  's  balanced 
pooty  neah'n  the  middle  !  " 

Miss  Tredgold  turned  things  over  in  her  mind. 

She  did  not  ask  France  Everidge  questions,  just  to  draw  forth 
in  words  what  she  could  infer  perfectly  well  without  words. 


"  NOT   HALF   GOOD    ENOUGH."  267 

She  was  not  a  woman  to  whom  life  was  only  life  when  the  facts 
of  it  troubled  the  atmosphere. 

France  did  not  tell  her  anything.  The  open  note  was  not 
handed  over  to  her,  as  conveying  any  tidings  of  Mr.  Kings- 
worth's  movements.  He  was  Miss  Ammah's  friend,  and  had 
spent  that  whole  evening  with  her,  first.  Among  other  things, 
so  France  phrased  it,  he  had  himself,  probably,  mentioned  to 
her  his  impending  absence.  Why  should  France  parade  the 
circumstance  of  his  having  written  to  her  also?  That,  unfortu 
nately,  had  paraded  itself  quite  as  much  as  she  could  placidly 
endure. 

So  silence  told  a  story,  and  the  birds  of  the  air,  that  are  un 
spoken  swift  perceptions,  flew  between  them.  Miss  Ammah 
knew  that  the  young  girl  had  refused  to  listen  to  the  minister. 

Miss  Ammah  knew,  too,  that  Kael  Heybrook  was  still  "  giving 
way."  It  was  hard  to  tell  from  the  grave,  controlled  demeanor 
of  this  youth,  who  had  known  nothing  of  the  passion  and  excite 
ment  of  life,  nothing  of  the  stage-and-novel  demonstrations  of 
human  experience  —  to  whom  a  feeling  was  something  covered 
up  in  his  own  soul,  and  decorous  bearing  was  like  the  quiet 
strength  of  his  own  great  hills  —  what  lay  beneath  his  restraint, 
or  whether  his  calm  comings  and  goings  were  restraint  at  all. 

Had  he  given  over,  without  fully  taking  to  his  consciousness, 
that  which  France  Everidge's  presence  had  quickened  him  to 
feel  a  need  cf  1  or  was  there  begun  with  him  the  long,  deliberate 
foregoing  of  a  lifetime  that  .must  be  always  aware  of  what  it 
might  —  nay,  ought  to  have  had,  but  which  should  be  owing 
till  eternity  should  justify  all  debts  of  being  and  relation? 

Was  not  this  owing  to  him,  at  least,  and  perhaps  from  her, 
that  he  should  know  his  own  conditions  fairly,  so  that  his  word, 
his  act,  might  shape  and  play  fairly  in  them?  This  was  the 
ought  —  the  oioing  —  that  she  turned  over  carefully  and  anx 
iously  in  her  mind. 

But  Miss  Ammah  was  not  one  of  those  over-helpful  subordi 
nates  that  must  always  be  giving  Providence  a  lift.  She  thought, 
on  general  principles,  that  the  straws  she  could  see  in  the  way 
might  very  possibly  be  small  obstacles  before  the  purpose  that 
was  marching  on.  It  would  be  a  foolhardy  officiousness  to 


268  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

try  to  pick  a  pin  from  the  track  before  the  wheels  of  a  loco 
motive. 

She  believed  in  the  need  of  things  that  happen,  for  the  most 
part ;  except  they  happen  by  craft  of  selfish  intermeddling,  or 
open-eyed  wrongdoing.  If  there  were  a  living  truth  between 
these  two,  that  belonged  to  the  eternities,  it  should  have  a 
force  in  itself  that  would  find  or  break  its  way  as  it  grew.  She 
might  as  well  interfere  to  guide  one  of  these  mountain  brooks 
to  the  sea,  as  to  cut  a  channel  for  a  true  human  love,  born  in 
high  places,  and  bound  with  an  enlarging  might  toward  the 
infinite  deeps. 

For  such  a  love  as  this,  between  natures  that  were  not  coarse 
or  common,  must  be  born  in  the  high  places  if  born  at  all.  It 
would  prove  itself  by  the  overbearing  that  it  would  need  to 
carry  it  past  hindrance,  delay,  difference.  If  it  were  not  this 
love,  and  did  not  prove  itself  so,  then  let  it  not  be.  It  would 
have  proved  itself  but  that  other  poor  thing  instead,  —  a  passing 
fancy,  on  the  one  part ;  on  the  other,  as  she  had  reasoned  be 
fore,  a  mere  foreshowing  of  some  waiting  reality. 

All  this  did  not  prevent  Miss  Ammah's  ponderings  gravitating 
much  toward  the  subject.  Where  the  body  is,  thither  will  the 
thought-wings  flutter  and  swoop.  And  of  the  thoughts  of  the 
heart  the  mouth  speaks,  though  the  intent  of  the  will  may 
drive  speech  by  very  roundabout  turns. 

Had  France  absolutely  and  finally  refused  the  minister1? 
That  was  what  she  would  very  much  have  liked  to  know.  Not 
the  bald  fact ;  she  hated  curiosity,  and  things  she  had  no  real 
business  with.  But  what  mind  France  was  in  toward  Bernard 
Kingsworth,  what  sort  of  place  and  estimate  she  held  him  in, 
what  she  would  say  of  him,  friendly-wise,  or  whether  she  would 
say  anything  of  him  at  all,  —  these  questions,  the  answer  to 
which  would  point  like  a  weather-vane  to  the  quarter  out  of 
which  the  wind  was  blowing  —  moved  Miss  Ammah.  The  more, 
of  course,  that  she  remembered  Mr.  Everidge  and  the  anxiety, 
which  was  a  part  of  her  own  uneasy  responsibility,  with  which 
he  must  be  awaiting  results. 

They  moved  her  to  say  something  one  day  when  her  morning 
letters  had  come  in,  and  among  them  was  one  from  Northampton; 


"  NOT   HALF   GOOD   ENOUGH."  269 

to  say  it  just  as  she  would  have  done  had  there  been  no 
thought  behind  to  make  her  scrupulous.  She  would  never 
have  deliberated,  any  more  than  France  herself,  pretext  or 
opportunity ;  but  she  suddenly  resolved  that  she  had  at  least 
a  right  to  act  naturally. 

"  This  is  from  Mr.  Kingsworth,"  she  said ;  and  she  just  flashed 
her  eyes  over  her  glasses  at  France,  without  raising  her  head. 

France  did  not  raise  her  head,  either.  She  was  very  busy 
with  a  dark-blue  ribbon  and  some  French  marigolds  that  she 
was  putting  upon  Sarell's  Sunday  hat  for  a  fine  autumn  trim 
ming. 

But  she  was  not  so  silly  as  not  to  speak  at  all.  She  settled 
a  critical  pin,  and  then  she  did  look  up,  with  quite  a  charm 
ing,  innocent  openness. 

"  Mr.  Kingsworth  ]     Is  he  coming  home  pretty  soonl" 

"  No  ;  he  is  to  give  Mr.  Dillon  a  fortnight  longer.  I  thought 
you  knew  that.  It  was  spoken  of  last  Sunday." 

"  I  believe  it  was.  Miss  Ammah,  don't  you  think  Mrs.  Hey- 
brook  ought  to  have  some  chicken  jelly  for  her  dinner  ? " 

"  And  then  Mr.  Kingsworth  thinks  of  going  for  a  week,  a 
minister's  week,  one  more  Sunday  and  a  fortnight  of  weekdays, 
to  Schenectady,  and  up  round  then,  by  Montreal.  Yes ;  Mrs. 
Heybrook  must  have  the  chicken  jelly  ;  I  left  some  covered  in  a 
saucer  on  the  cellarway  shelf,"  answered  the  categorical  woman. 

Her  categorical  ness  thwarted  herself;  she  could  no  longer 
avail  herself  of  the  simple,  natural  thing  that  she  had  a  right 
to,  and  had  begun  with.  She  had  to  insist  on  her  own  subject, 
now ;  and  having  made  up  her  mind,  she  did  insist. 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  as  much  interested  in  Mr.  Kingsworth 
as  you  were,  France,"  she  said  boldly.  "You  have  scarcely 
asked  a  word  about  him,  all  the  while.  Or  were  -you  interested1? 
Perhaps  I  thought  you  must  like  him  because  I  did.  He  has 
certainly  been  very  kind  ;  and  he  is  not  a  common  man." 

Now  France  turned  categorical. 

"  I  do  like  him,"  she  said  with  a  directness  that  seemed  to 
challenge  Miss  Ammah's  inquisition.  "  But  I  can  live  without 
him.  Not  common,  no.  He  's  too  far  out  of  the  common.  He 
is  a  man  you  want  an  interval  between.  I  could  n't  keep  up 


270  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

with  him  every  day.  In  fact,  Miss  Ammah,  I  've  always  known, 
and  I  know  it  more  and  more,  that  I  'm  nothing  but  a  between. 
I  have  a  great  reverence  for  teachers  and  preachers ;  but  I  prefer 
to  consort  —  with  the  '  taught  and  the  praught.'  " 

And  then  France  laid  her  finger  on  her  lip,  holding  a  smile 
there,  while  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  with  a  suddeu,  intense 
deliberation. 

Miss  Ammah  was  answered,  and  knew  that  the  minister  was. 

France  turned  to  her,  with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  a  mute, 
funny,  beseeching  face. 

"  I  've  half  a  mind  not  to  ask  you  a  question  all  day,"  said 
Miss  Ammah  petulantly,  "  and  keep  you  there,  with  your 
rhymes  and  your  wishes  !  What  have  you  wished  for,  I  wonder, 
when  you  don't  want  — 

"  Thank  you  !  Thank  you  ! "  cried  France  exultingly.  "  I  've 
wished,  yes,  I  've  wished  for  just  common  sense,  —  I  don't  say  alto 
gether  for  myself.  What  a  nice  world  this  would  be,  if  we  could 
only,  most  of  us,  have  that,  and  know  when  it 's  all  we  've  got,  and 
be  contented  with  it,  and  stay  where  we  belong !  but  everybody 
now  must  be  so  fine  and  superior,  somehow,  if  not  in  themselves, 
then  by  some  sort  of  annexation.  There  is  n't  any  comfortable 
multitude  left  to  sit  down  upon  the  grass.  I  don't  mean,  if  I 
can  possibly  help  it,  to  desert  the  multitude." 

"  You  can't.  You  can  only  desert  your  place  in  it,  if  you 
make  a  mistake.  The  multitude  is  all  round  the  planet."  Miss 
Ammah  rehearsed  her  favorite  sentiment,  in  which  she  retained 
copyright,  notwithstanding  pulpit  elucidation ;  but  her  nose 
was  not  horizontal,  this  time.  It  inclined  itself  with  a  gentle 
thoughtfulness.  It  directed  its  line,  not  across  France  Everidge's 
head,  but  downward,  in  the  parallel  of  a  glance  that  fell,  almost 
tenderly,  upon  France's  face,  as  the  girl  sat  on  the  low  piazza 
step,  with  her  work-basket  on  the  floor  above  her.  There  is  a 
great  deal  in  the  coincidence,  or  otherwise,  of  this  line  of  the 
nose  with  the  line  of  vision. 

"Yes'm,"  said  France,  not  looking  up,  but  prinking  with  her 
finger-tips  the  set  of  her  marigolds  and  blue  bows.  "  And  it 's 
a  lovely  old  planet,  too !  and  I  like  things  to  keep,  generally, 
pretty  close  to  it,  for  common  living.  I  don't  mmd  an  occa- 


"NOT   HALF   GOOD   ENOUGH."  271 

sional  sweep  upward,  —  of  a  rainbow,  for  instance  ;  but  I  'm 
thankful  the  rainbow  is  an  arch,  and  not  a  column.  The 
nicest  of  it  is  where  it  touches  the  ground.  That 's  the  way 
it  is  here,  among  these  hills.  It  starts,  and  drops,  right  out  of 
the  grass  and  trees,  and  into  them  again." 

France  chattered  on,  half  in  earnest,  half  at  random,  wholly 
bent  upon  escaping  the  personal  point  of  the  subject ;  settling 
her  ribbons  as  she  talked. 

"  Would  you  like  to  start  and  drop  that  way  1  Could  you 
live  among  the  grass  and  trees  all  your  life  1" 

"  How  should  it  ever  be  possible  to  me,  Miss  Ammah  ?  I  didn't 
start  that  way." 

"  Well,  drop  then ! "  said  Miss  Ammah,  provoked  at  the 
girl's  coolness. 

"  You  can't  drop  up,"  answered  France.  "  Does  n't  this  look 
nice  1  Now,  the  next  thing  is  Mrs.  Heybrook's  best  cashmere 
skirt,  that  she  's  worrying  about.  I  'm  going  to  put  a  silk 
dado  to  it." 

"  France,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  after  two  minutes'  checkmated 
pause,  "  you  will  have  to  write  to  your  father.  He  knows,  and 
he  '11  be  dreading  and  expecting.  He  told  me  he  hoped  you 
would  belong  to  him  for  a  dozen  years  to  come."  In  this  little 
impromptu  verbatim  report,  Miss  Ammah  neatly,  and  perhaps, 
preveniently,  discharged  her  conscience  of  a  bit  of  matronly 
duty. 

The  hat  and  ribbons  and  the  busy  fingers  lay  suddenly  still 
on  the  girl's  lap.  The  mischief  —  that  was  only  a  cover,  at  best, 
to  maidenly  constraint,  and  a  feeling  that  she  did  not  choose  to 
let  come  uppermost  —  died  out  of  her  eyes,  and  a  different 
glisten  showed  there ;  she  was  silent  for  a  minute,  herself;  then 
she  said,  quite  simply  and  gently,  "  Don't  think  me  a  fool  or 
a  good-for-nothing.  You  are  all  a  thousand  times  too  good  to 
me.  I  '11  write  to  papa." 

And  presently  she  gathered  up  all  her  little  millinery  and 
went  away. 

The  result  was  the  reception  by  Mr.  Everidge,  two  days  after, 
of  this  characteristic  note,  in  which  most  was  to  be  read  in  the 
blanks  between  the  paragraphs  :  — 


272  ODD,    OK   EVEN? 

PERSONAL  AND  CONFIDENTIAL. 

"  DEAR  PAPA,  —  I  was  n't  half  good  enough  for  the  minister. 
Miss  Ammah  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  know. 

"  I  think  I  shall  belong  to  you  for  a  dozen  years  to  come. 
"  Seeing  that  this  sending  is  nearly  as  much  Miss  Amman's 
as  mine, 

"  I  am  yours  affectionately, 

"FRANCES  EVERIDGE  AND  COMPANY." 


"OLD   THUNDER."  273 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

"  OLD   THUNDER." 

THE  shallow,  rambling  brook  that  ran  down  behind  the  north 
mowing,  broadened  out  in  the  hollow  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
field,  took  a  spread  and  a  turn  around  a  group  of  huge  boulder 
rocks,  fern-draperied,  and  pine-crowned  with  a  miniature  forest 
of  their  own,  and  left  this  pretty  island  separated  by  but  half  a 
dozen  strides  of  distance  from  the  mainland  on  either  side. 
Beyond  was  open  pasture,  that  reached  back  to  the  farm  boun 
dary  on  that  part,  and  was  met  by  the  rougher  "  wood-pasture  " 
of  the  Clark  Farm.  Clark's  fences  were  always  half-down, 
his  land  was  stumpy  and  scrubby ;  but  it  looked  wild  and 
pretty  over  there,  across  the  fair,  open  lot,  where  Mrs.  Hey- 
brook's  flocks  of  turkeys  ranged,  and  the  sun  lit  up  the  swells 
and  sweeps  of  the  short,  gold-ripe  grass. 

The  boys  had  flung  a  rude  bridge  from  the  field  border  to  the 
island,  over  the  water  that  was  too  deep  here  for  stepping-stones. 
It  flowed  around  the  rocky  little  islet  in  a  deep  pool,  where  a 
cliff  or  basin  in  the  undeilying  ledge  seemed  to  fill  itself  before 
it  let  the  stream  pass  on  over  the  lower  lip.  High  among  the 
heaped-np  granite  mns^es  was  a  shady,  cup-like  chamber,  half 
grotto,  half  bower,  carpeted  and  cushioned  with  mosses  and 
pine  needles. 

The  Sunday  afternoon  after  her  talk  with  Miss  Ammah  re 
peated  to  the  reader  in  the  last  chapter,  while  Sarell  and  her 
new  hat  had  gone  off  for  a  holiday,  when  the  old  farmer  was 
dozing  in  the  keeping-room  rocking-chair  close  beside  his  wife's 
bedroom  door,  and  Israel  sat  reading  by  his  mother's  window, 
while  she  too,  slept,  and  Miss  Ammah  up  stairs  was  enjoying  her 
one  weekly  daytime  nap,  France,  finding  herself  alone,  betook 
herself,  with  her  book,  down  the  mowing. 

18 


274  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

She  made  a  pretty  moving  spot  of  color  as  her  white  skirt 
swept  the  little  knobbed  heads  of  the  low  grasses,  and  her  scarlet 
cardinal  cape  contrasted  brightly  with  her  dress  and  the  dark 
green  of  the  bushes  scattered  along  the  waterside,  and  of  the 
pine  thicket  toward  which  she  walked.  She  had  broken  one 
bright  bough  from  the  undermost  great  branch  of  a  maple-tree, 
and  was  using  it  for  a  shade  against  the  westing  sun,  and  the 
leaves  made  a  responding  glow  and  flutter  to  those  of  the  long 
hood-ribbons  of  her  cloak  that  the  west  wind  blew  behind  her. 

A  pretty  picture  of  color  thrown  out  more  and  more  against 
the  shadow  and  the  green  of  the  copse  as  she  went ;  but  there 
was  no  living  creature,  this  side,  to  see  her  so.  She  wandered 
slowly  down,  alone  in  all  that  outstretch  of  billowy  green  hill 
side,  the  house  sleepy  and  quiet,  with  shut  blinds,  behind  her. 

A  living  creature  from  far  away  upon  that  other  side,  how 
ever,  saw  her ;  saw  the  brilliant  fluttering  of  her  scarlet  cloak 
and  its  long  ribbons,  and  the  waving  of  the  bough,  like  a  red 
and  golden  flame  in  the  fiery  sunlight,  —  a  great,  fearsome  crea 
ture,  with  sullen  eyes  that  set  themselves  with  a  steady, 
threatening  glare  toward  her  from  under  a  square,  shaggy 
forehead  and  short,  sharp,  cruel  horns,  —  Farmer  Clark's  cross 
bull,  with  the  ring  in  his  nose,  that  was  almost  always  kept 
chained  in  the  barn,  or  only  let  out  in  the  far  cliff  meadow 
beyond  and  below  the  steep  forest  pasture. 

Around  the  cliff,  up  through  the  woodland,  and  now  over  the 
broken  fence  to  the  further  slope  of  the  Heybrook  lot  he  had 
strayed,  sniffing  and  booing  in  his  restless,  half-excited  fashion, 
till,  from  across  that  long  distance,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
bright  moving  figure,  and  watched  it  with  that  sullen  menace 
to  see  if  it  did  move,  —  if  it  were  a  living  thing  to  spend  a  fury 
on.  Then  he  shook  his  shaggy  head  and  cruel  horns  with  quick, 
sharp  tosses,  snorted,  puffed,  and  sped  on  with  lowei'ed  front 
down  the  pasture-side.  Every  now  and  again  that  half  roar 
trembled  on  the  air  like  a  broken  mutter  of  thunder,  —  thunder 
with  a  voice  in  it. 

But  France  did  not  see  or  hear  to  apprehend.  She  was  timid 
enough  of  cows  if  she  had  to  meet  them  close,  but  she  had  become 
used,  here,  to  the  far-off  sounds  of  cattle,  and  she  did  not  dis- 


"OLD    THUNDER."  275 

tinguish  this  to  divine  the  difference.  She  was  looking  down 
among  the  little  strawberry-vines,  whose  early-turning  leaves 
showed  here  and  there  half-buried  gleams,  like  the  gleams  of 
summer  fruit ;  at  the  clouds  of  springing  grasshoppers  that 
were  leaping  up  into  the  warmth  as  if  they  were  the  embodied 
gladness  of  the  live  earth  under  the  long  sweetness;  at  the 
brown-winged,  gold-flecked  butterflies  that  stayed  so  late  in  their 
pretty  autumn  dress  ;  at  the  empty  nests  here  and  there,  out  of 
which  she  had  watched  the  ground-sparrows'  broods  hatching  in 
the  earlier  time  ;  and  she  was  thinking  of  all  that  earlier  time, 
growing  late  and  short  now,  and  leaving  or  gathering  in  its  late 
ness  and  briefness  so  much  that  she  had  never  enjoyed  or 
thought  of  before,  —  so  much  of  a  world  that  she  had  never  been 
born  into  before ;  that  she  was  only  a  baby  three  months  old 
in  now. 

And  while  she  walked  and  pondered,  the  great,  shaggy  shape 
was  coming  on  obliquely  from  behind  her,  slanting  his  line  as 
she  lengthened  hers.  As  he  descended  through  the  cradle-dip 
of  the  undulating  field  he  ceased  his  half  roars,  losing  sight  of 
the  exasperating  object,  but  when  his  heavy  head  and  horns 
and  terrible  eyes  reared  themselves  over  the  hither  swell  of 
land  and  he  caught  view  of  it  again,  he  gave  forth  a  real,  angry 
bellow  and  plunged  on  faster,  faster  toward  where  his  path  should 
strike  on  hers,  with  only  the  narrow  stream  between  them, 
so  shallow  here  in  its  upper  course,  so  undefended  often  at  fre 
quent  intervals  by  the  kindly  tangles  of  its  broken  hedgery. 

Nobody  can  mistake  that  sound  of  a  bull's  roar.  France  gave 
a  shuddering  start  and  looked  fearfully  about  her.  But  all  this 
peaceful  field  was  wide  and  safe  ;  some  elder-bushes  fringed  the 
water  by  her  side,  and  through  them  she  could  not  instantly 
discern  the  whereabouts  of  that  which  well  enough  kept  trace 
of  hers,  never  losing  from  its  relentless  gaze  the  sunlit  scarlet 
of  her  dress  as  it  went  gleaming  on  behind  the  green.  There 
came  another  roar,  and  the  sound  shook  all  the  air  about  her. 
A  dreadful  trampling  and  bounding,  and  it  felt  close  upon  her. 

Electrified  in  every  nerve,  she  sprang,  she  hardly  knew 
whither  or  from  what ;  she  was  in  the  midst  of  some  half- 
comprehended  horror  which  enveloped  her,  helpless.  The  great 


276  ODD,   OR  EVEX  ? 

space  around  her  was  all  one  inescapable  danger.      The  air 
wrapped  her  with  a  threat  like  a  fire. 

But  her  spring  brought  her  forward  to  where  the  alders 
lessened  and  sloped  down  to  one  of  the  broken,  gullied  spaces, 
and  the  threat,  the  peril,  defined  itself. 

.  Across  the  little  brook,  with  nothing  between  her  and  it  but 
the  rough  channel-hollow,  the  rippling  water,  and  the  ridges  of 
loose,  water-washed  stones  that  made  low  natural  walls  along 
the  sides,  she  saw  —  with  horns  now  angrily  tossing,  now  with 
head  plunged  downward  to  tear  the  ground,  tail  flung  out  rigid 
with  fury,  eyes  glaring,  hot,  snorting  breath  panting  toward 
her,  making  short  sidewise  bounds  along  the  division  line  of 
bank  and  bush  and  stone  and  flowing  current  —  the  fierce, 
enormous  beast  whose  like  she  had  never  seen  before,  but  which 
she  knew  now  face  to  face  as  if  she  had  known  him,  and  this 
that  was  coming  to  happen,  all  the  days  of  her  life. 

The  hot  fright  turned  cold  with  a  gathering  back  of  vital 
force  to  heart  and  brain  as  she  faced  and  realized  the  thing. 
It  was  not  courage  that  came  to  her  so  much  as  a  singular 
trance-like  concentration  upon  the  instant's  situation  and  neces 
sity.  Everything  else  of  life  and  consciousness,  instead  of 
flashing  up  in  wonderful  intrusive  review  such  as  she  had  been 
told  and  had  read  of,  blotted  itself  out.  There  was  but  this 
one  moment,  this  one  fact,  of  all  ever  or  anywhere. 

She  and  this  monster,  and  the  question  between  them. 
Every  breath  of  its  and  hers  was  a  nameless  period  of  time. 
Every  step  was  a  stage  in  a  prolonged,  intense  experience.  For 
neither  she  nor  it  stopped  wholly  short  ;  some  delivering  in 
stinct  helping  her  to  act  on  what  had  not  time  to  shape  itself 
into  a  definite  perception  and  to  know  in  her  very  body,  with 
out  waiting  for  it  to  corne  through  her  mind,  that  the  creature 
•was  tracking  her  along  that  boundary  whose  mere  appearance 
would  be  nothing  to  its  power  if  an  absolute  pause  invited  him 
to  make  a  rush  across  it,  or  if  it  entered  his  brute  head  that 
he  might  cross  it  and  pursue  her. 

The  gulch  was  rough  and  deep  just  here  ;  the  lines  of  mar 
ginal  stones  were  the  suggestion  of  a  barrier,  scarce  more. 
Presently  the  short  growth  thickened  itself,  and  grew  tall 


"  OLD   THUNDER."  277 

again.  Behind  that,  she  would  be  as  behind  a  fence;  but 
beyond  again,  she  knew  very  well  there  was  a  different  open 
ing  and  a  smoother  outspread,  a  place  where  a  cat  might  almost 
run  across. 

She  dared  not  stop :  to  go  back  would  be  to  pass  the 
creature,  to  say  nothing  of  more  exposed  points  still  and  the 
longer  distance  and  up-hill,  —  the  beast,  with  his  glare  and  his 
tossing  horns  and  his  horrible  tread  and  his  hot  roar,  always 
following  her. 

She  walked  on  fast,  therefore,  with  limbs  that  felt  tense  with 
the  strain  that  conquers  trembling.  She  kept  the  parallel  line  : 
if  she  had  run  from  the  brook,  the  bull  would  have  dashed 
after  her.  He  kept  over  against  her,  with  his  short,  angry 
leaps,  his  sniffs,  his  snorts,  his  growlings.  She  gained  the 
bosky  covert,  over  whose  tops  she  could  still  see  the  glaring 
eyes,  the  tossing  horns.  She  held  her  look,  through  the  very 
trance  of  dread,  steadfastly  on  the  awful  look  that  met  her, 
and  still  moved  on  to  keep  him  moving. 

When  the  protecting  hedge  stretched  only  its  last  few  yards 
between  them,  she  turned  square  toward  it  and  stood  still. 

The  bull  squared  himself  also,  and  stood  still,  in  his  fashion, 
pawing  and  snorting. 

She  half  turned  backward  on  her  steps,  and  he  turned. 
Then,  instantly,  like  a  flash,  she  wheeled ;  and  before  he  could 
comprehend,  or  follow  the  quick  movement  with  his  ponderous 
bulk,  she  gleamed  in  her  scarlet  drapery  across  the  break,  down 
the  swift  pitch  that  the  brook  made  into  the  glen-hollow,  and 
gained  the  shelter  of  the  thick  button-bushes  below,  all  overrun 
with  vines  of  bittersweet  springing  among  the  first  great  out 
crops  of  the  ledge  to  which  the  face  of  the  hill  bared  itself. 
Here,  besides,  the  water-channel  made  a  quick  bend  toward  the 
pasture. 

She  snatched  her  cloak  from  her  shoulders,  bursting  it  from 
its  fastening  at  the  throat,  and  flung  it  high  across  the  bushes ; 
then  ran,  as  she  had  never  run  before,  along  her  right-angled 
path,  while  the  brute  made  his  headlong,  furious  bolt  at  the 
point  she  left  behind  her. 

A  moment  more,  and  the  deep  water  was  between  her  and 


278  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

the  unreasoning  creature,  who  would  not  go  back  to  where  he 
might  have  followed  her,  but  came  plunging  on  behind  the 
broadening  thicket  and  the  spreading  stream. 

Over  the  bridge,  and  up  the  rude  rock-niches,  and  into  the 
safe,  pine-shaded  grotto.  There  she  dropped  full  length,  not 
fainting,  —  France  was  one  of  those  who  could  not  faint,  — 
but  powerless  in  every  muscle,  deadly  weak  and  trembling  in 
every  nerve  and  fibre ;  breathless,  almost  pulseless ;  grasped  at 
last  by  that  which  had  not  grasped  her. 

Rael  sat  reading  —  not  his  book,  not  the  hillside  that  sloped 
up  restfully  toward  the  sky,  as  he  looked  forth  at  it  from  his 
mother's  east  window,  written  all  over  as  it  was  with  the  word 
of  the  grass  and  the  late  little  golden  stars  of  the  dandelion 
and  the  shadow  of  the  light-moving  clouds  above  it  westward, 
and  the  soft  scamper  of  the  gentle  whift's  of  wind  across  it. 

He  was  reading  neither  this  nor  that. 

He  too  was  thinking  of  that  brief  time,  the  early  and  the 
late  summer,  which  had  been  to  him  a  lifetime  that  he  had 
never  lived  before. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  had  stayed  away,  overstaying  his  en 
gagement.  He  would  not  have  done  that,  if  there  had  been 
any  engagement  here.  That  question  had  answered  itself,  as 
questions  do  when  you  wait  to  let  them.  What  then  ?  Was 
there  any  question  at  all  for  him  1  Only  this,  and  it  was  not  a 
question.  France  Everidge  was  all  of  womanhood  to  him,  and 
would  be,  whether  out  of  all  womanhood  God  could  make  a 
wife  for  him  or  not.  That  asking  lay  unsolved  in  the  affirma 
tion  of.  the  whole. 

Would  he  tell  her  this  before  she  went  away1?  Would  he 
dare  tell  her] 

Not  that  he  thought  now  of  the  little  differences,  and  was 
afraid  of  them.  Somehow  they  had  all  vanished  before  that 
nobler  fear  that,  like  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  is  the  beginning  of 
highest,  most  beautiful  knowledge,  that  changes  from  fear  to 
lovely  reverence  without  fear,  only  when  the  perfect,  answered 
love  comes  and  replaces  it.  He  knew  the  difficulties,  the  im 
possibilities,  or  he  would  have  known  if  it  had  been  direct 


"  OLD   THUNDER."  279 

question  of  them ;  but  he  had  no  fear,  no  doubt  of  outside 
judgment  from  France  Everidge  herself. 

Should  he  tell  her,  —  give  her  all  the  truth  to  go  away  with, 
let  it  be  what  it  might  to  her,  —  or  should  he  let  her  go  away 
without  it, — let  their  lives,  that  were  these  three  months  old 
together,  detach  themselves  from  each  other,  part  separate 
ways,  and  get  different  and  divided  from  each  other  more  and 
more  1 

Should  n't  he  at  least  thank  her  once  for  what  she  had  been 
to  him  this  summer-time  1  He  thought  he  would  at  least  do 
that. 

He  could  not  ask  her  anything.  How  could  he,  till  he  had 
something  more  to  give  1  Himself?  Yes,  he  could  give  that; 
but  himself  was  not  all  he  must  be  when  he  should  ask,  if 
ever  he  could,  France  Everidge  to  take  him. 

Upon  his  thoughts  broke  suddenly  that  outward  sound, 
crashing  the  summer  Sunday  stillness. 

Lyman,  lounging  in  the  kitchen-porch,  with  Bowse  at  his 
feet,  spoke  across  through  the  open  door  and  window  ways. 
"  Old  Thunder  has  got  up  into  the  Clark  pasture,"  he  said. 

Bowse,  a  cattle-dog,  knowing  every  horned  head  within  three 
miles,  and  a  perfect  beadle  among  the  herds,  — flying  in  among 
them  if  any  were  out  of  bounds,  and  separating  the  mixed 
companies,  turning  each  farmer's  own  toward  its  own  belonging, 
—  lifted  up  his  head,  sniffed  and  snorted  much,  in  his  way,  as 
Old  Thunder  sniffed  and  snorted  in  a  bigger;  both  battle- 
fashion,  both  qui-vive  to  the  scarlet  from  afar  off. 

Lyman  laid  his  hand  on  the  dog's  collar.  "  Don't  get  oxcited, 
Bowse  !  't  ain't  your  Thunder.  No  need  to  run  after  what  you 
can't  tackle  with  when  you  ketch  up." 

"  That  sounds  nearer  than  Clark's  woods,"  said  Israel.  "He 's 
over  in  our  piece,  and  he's  after  something." 

"Gobblers,"  said  Lyme  carelessly.     "Can't  gobble  them." 

Rael  went  to  the  north  window  and  looked  out.  Old  Thunder 
was  down  in  the  cradle-dip,  now,  sniffing  and  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  went  along.  Rael  saw  nothing. 

The  next  was  that  frightful  roar  from  just  below  upon  the 
hill.  Bowse  bounded  up  with  a  big  bark. 


280  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

Israel  strode  into  the  keeping-room  and  out  upon  the  west 
piazza,  then  back  in  a  single  instant,  with  a  white  face. 

"  Where 's  Miss  Everidge  1 "  he  demanded,  with  a  question 
like  a  pistol-shot. 

"  Up  stairs,"  said  Lyman,  with  his  usual  coolness.  "  Hold  on, 
Bowse  !  We'll  see,  old  boy."  And  with  his  fingers  in  Bowse's 
collar  he  went  out  at  the  end  door. 

Israel  leaped  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "  Miss  Everidge  !  " 
he  called. 

Miss  Ammah  answered  sleepily,  as  if  raising  herself  up  and 
looking  round  her  as  she  spoke,  "  She  is  n't  here.  She  went 
out,  I  guess.  She  came  and  got  her  hat  and  cape." 

That  red  cape  !     Rael  knew  all  now. 

Lyman  and  Bowse  had  disappeared. 

Rael  ran,  hatless,  down  the  mowing. 

The  drop  of  the  land  hid  everything.  It  was  below  there  that 
something,  he  did  not  let  himself  think  what,  was  happening. 
The  bull  was  trampling  and  tearing,  bellowing  hideously. 
Rael  heard  the  bushes  crashing. 

Suddenly  something  went  up,  dark,  into  the  air, —  dark,  with 
a  scarlet  flutter  about  it.  It  was  gone  down  in  an  instant. 
It  did  not  look  like  —  did  it  ?  He  could  not  recall  in  that  next 
horrible  second  how  it  had  seemed.  Dear  Lord  in  heaven ! 
what  should  it  look  like  1  Rael,  in  an  whirlwind  of  agony,  that 
was  lasting  ages,  shot  down  the  hill. 

He  never  could  tell,  after  that,  in  what  order  his  sensations 
came  to  him.  The  glimpse  across  the  break  in  the  brook- 
shrubbery,  of  the  bull,  head  down,  trampling  and  tearing ;  a 
heap  upon  the  ground  ;  a  scarlet  glimmer  through  the  cloud  of 
dust  and  clods  that  flew  at  every  plunge ;  the  horrible,  heavy 
snarl  of  hungry  rage ;  the  barks  of  the  dog,  rushing  with  his 
small  fury  at  the  heels  of  the  huger ;  his  own  mad  cry,  that 
went  forth  from  him  above  it  all,  and  that  he  heard  before  he 
knew  that  he  was  uttering  it, —  a  great  imprecation,  the  only 
word  he  ever  spoke  like  that,  and  yet  that  was  not  blasphemy, 
but  a  fiery,  challenging  appeal  from  all  that  was  human  in  him 
to  all  that  was  human  in  Almighty  God,  against  all  beastly, 
fiendish  savagery  and  helpless  sacrifice  upon  the  earth ;  the 


"OLD   THUNDER."  281 

partial  lull  of  the  tumult,  as  Bowse,  fresh  and  eager,  drew  off 
the  bull  by  bounds  and  barks  to  a  new  pursuit,  and  then 
dashed  away  before  him  over  the  steep  upland ,-  the  uprising 
of  that  white  figure  in  the  high,  rocky  shelter ;  the  out-flinging 
of  her  arms  toward  him  ;  her  sharp,  clear  cry,  "  Rael !  Rael ! 
I  'm  safe  !  " 

Lyman,  coming  down  after  the  dog,  across  the  brook  and 
upon  the  pasture  side,  had  seen  sooner  and  more  clearly  that 
a  torn-up  mass  of  hedge  and  clinging  earth,  with  the  red  cloak, 
however  it  had  come  there,  was  all  the  beast  had  got  to  satisfy 
his  frenzy  on  ;  that  he  was  half  tired  already ;  that  Bowse 
would  keep  him  in  tow,  and  cunningly  head  him  on  toward  his 
proper  quarters ;  that  his  own  shortest  course  was  to  keep  on, 
cross  lots,  to  the  Clark  farmhouse  and  send  out  the  men : 
and  presently  all  the  brookside  and  the  field  were  nearly 
still  again,  only  Bowse's  receding  barks  and  the  snortings  of 
old  Thunder  sounding  farther  and  farther  toward  the  forest- 
line. 

Kael  came  up  into  the  grotto  chamber. 

The  strong  fellow's  limbs  all  trembled,  even  as  the  girl's  had 
done.  He  looked  at  France  an  instant,  with  eyes  that  showed 
his  soul  through ;  then  he  grasped  a  shelf  of  rock  with  both 
hands,  and  leaned  his  face  down  upon  them. 

France  came  to  his  side.  Something  like  a  dry  sob  shook 
the  shoulders,  whose  manly  strength  would  have  been  but  as  a 
reed  to  save  her  from  that  awful  danger. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  him.  "  Rael !  Rael !  "  she  said. 
"  What  is  it  ?  Did  you  think  —  " 

Rael  lifted  up  his  face,  turned  himself,  brought  his  hands 
round  from  their  hold  upon  the  rock,  and  took  her  hand  in 
them  as  it  slid  down  from  his  shoulder. 

"  I  think  I  could  not  live  if  you  had  been  hurt,"  he  said. 
"  The  very  hairs  of  your  head  are  precious  —  and  I  could  not 
help  you ! " 

Her  hand  was  in  his  ;  his  voice  was  deep  and  trembling ; 
from  his  eyes  came  forth  the  intensity  of  the  feeling  that  even 
now  he  restrained  in  speech.  He  did  not  say  "  to  me,"  when 
that  utterance  had  broken  from  him,  taking  the  very  form  that 


282  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

God's  love,  spoken  to  man,  has  made  holy.  "Precious?"  Yes; 
to  all  who  had  ever  known  her,  bright  and  pure  and  sweet 
and  strong  as  she  was,  a  flower  of  lovely  and  noble  girlhood. 
There  was  no  word  for  her  to  answer ;  yet  his  whole  soul  had 
laid  itself  down  before  her  :  he  "  could  not  live  if  she  had  been 
hurt." 

His  doubt  had  determined  itself;  in  the  thrill  of  the  circum 
stance  that  had  befallen,  he  had  shown  her  his  heart,  with 
herself  in  it.  Yet  she  was  in  other  hearts  also.  He  asked  her 
for  nothing  back.  He  had  said  all  he  had  any  right  to  say ; 
he  was  too  worldly-simple  to  think  he  could  not  say  that  truth 
of  truths,  and  say  no  more.  And  in  the  face  of  death  and 
blessed  escape,  he  had  said  it,  and  left  it  where  it  was. 

France  had  turned  deadly  pale  ;  she  had  put  her  other  hand 
out  against  the  rock,  to  steady  herself.  He  had  told  her 
heaven's  truth,  if  he  had  left  nothing  to  be  answered.  What 
was  heaven's  truth  in  her  own  heart  1  For  one  instant  only, 
that  demand,  which  she  was  not  ready  for,  rushed  upon  her. 

That  and  the  impossibilities  in  her  and  about  her  smote 
together,  and  it  was  as  if  her  heart  were  between  them. 

Must  she  face  it  now,  that  truth,  whatever  it  was  that  she  so 
shrunk  from,  and  honestly  let  him  know  ?  Would  it  answer  in 
spite  of  her,  as  it  had  spoken  from  him,  who  had  asked  nothing? 
And  then,  what  would  she  have  done,  and  what  would,  what 
could  come  of  it  ?  There  was  hardly  anything  distinct  in  her ; 
she  only  felt  the  two  terrible  forces  that  these  questions 
would  have  represented,  had  they  taken  shape  of  words. 

She  made  a  desperate  effort  against  the  faintness  that  seemed 
coming  back  again.  She  would  not  sink,  nor  sit ;  she  stood  up 
straight,  and  the  red  rushed  up  to  her  cheeks  and  lips,  as  she 
wrestled  herself  from  that  helplessness,  her  sharp  self-command 
her  only  restorative.  Then  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Rael,"  she  said ;  and  it 
was  all  she  could  say. 

The  moment  was  over  in  which  she  could  have  given  back  as 
he  gave  her. 

But  she  had  given  him  that  one  warm  syllable  that  any 
friend  might  give.  She  was  kind ;  she  was  not  offended ;  the 


"  OLD   THUNDER."  283 

woman-angel  in  her  made  her  tender,  dealing  with  his  boldness. 
That  was  how  it  seemed  to  Rael. 

He  did  not  let  go  the  hand  he  held ;  but  he  only  drew  it 
through  his  arm,  for  help.  . "  You  must  let  me  help  you,"  he 
said ;  and  then  she  moved  to  go  down  with  him  from  the  rock. 
"  They  will  be  frightened  at  the  house,"  said  she. 

So  they  descended  the  broken  pathway,  and  crossed  the 
stepping-stones.  He  went  before  her  on  these,  reaching  back  a 
firm  grasp  to  her,  to  assist  her  as  she  followed.  Then  he  made 
her  take  his  arm  again,  and  they  climbed  the  rolling  hillside. 

She  trembled  and  lost  her  breath  with  the  ascent  of  the 
steep  breaks  and  knolls.  Her  strength  had  not  come  back  to 
her  so  that  she  could  retrace  calmly,  were  that  all,  the  way  she 
had  come  in  the  face  and  jaws  of  a  tremendous  terror.  Rael 
had  almost  to  lift,  as  well  as  lead  her,  once  or  twice,  up  the 
long  steps  of  natural  terrace.  But  he  did  it  just  as  simply  as 
he  had  lifted  her  into  the  wagon  on  that  evening  when  she  had 
hurt  her  knee.  They  were  just  the  same  as  they  had  been 
before.  That  was  what  he  thought  she  meant  and  permitted. 

Yet  he  spoke  one  word  more  before  they  came  quite  up  out 
of  that  wide  field-solitude  in  which  they  were  together.  He 
made  France  sit  down  just  below  the  last  high  roll  of  the  as 
cent  ;  and  he  stood  before  her  while  she  rested. 

"  Miss  France,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  her  his  hand  once  more, 
to  help  her  rise,  "  I  cannot  say  it  again  if  I  do  not  now.  You 
are  not  offended  ?  You  will  forgive  me,  —  you  will  let  me  be 
your  friend  1 " 

And  France  lifted  her  eyes  full  into  his,  and  answered,  "Yes, 
Rael.  My  friend,  always." 


284  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   SENSE    OF  IT. 

FRANCE  made  as  light  as  possible  of  her  adventure  in  discuss 
ing  it  with  Miss  Ammah.  "  He  was  a  frightful  object,"  she 
said ;  "  but  he  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook,  and  when  I 
found  out  it  was  my  red  cape  he  was  after,  I  tossed  it  over  to 
him.  Lyman  and  Bowse  took  care  of  the  rest.  Of  course  it 
shook  me  a  little." 

Nobody  but  Rael  knew  how  terribly  near  she  had  been  to 
death ;  nobody  but  France  knew  what  it  had  been  to  Rael. 

Perhaps  Miss  Ammah,  keen  enough  to  discern  that  there  was 
a  reticence,  observed  them  sharply,  to  judge  just  how  far  and 
to  what  it  extended  ;  she  knew  enough  of  human  nature  to  un 
derstand  that  they  had  been  brought  into  a  sufficient  closeness 
of  experience  to  test  whatever  closeness  of  feeling  was  possible 
between  them. 

Nothing  appeared,  but  that  they  did  not  mean  she  should  be 
frightened  into  future  anxieties,  and  that  they  were  quietly 
friendly  after  all  was  over,  as  usual.  If  they  had  gone  through 
this, — well,  Miss  Ammah  began  to  feel,  perhaps,  that  France 
was  really  odd  enough  to  keep  odd  ;  and  that  Rael's  good  sense 
and  cool  self-recollection  were  indefinitely  to  be  trusted. 

France  herself  walked  now  in  a  sweet,  calm  dream,  possible 
only  to  that  beautiful  girlhood  which,  resting  in  itself  for  the 
while  God  means  in  putting  it  between  childhood  and  woman 
hood,  looks  on  into  life  as  a  duration,  pure,  unfevered,  of  all 
lovely  relations  that  can  be  begun  in  a  fervor  of  the  spirit 
which  is  not  so  much  as  touched  with  the  tumult  of  passion. 
It  had  been  this  gracious  maidenliness,  shrinking  from  being 
touched  by  it,  that  had  retreated,  as  with  a  caprice  of  repug- 


THE   SENSE   OF   IT.  285 

nance,  from  the  presentiment  of  Bernard  Kingsworth's  love- 
seeking. 

She  was  so  glad  that  Rael  had  asked  something  of  her ;  that 
he  had  asked  that,  —  her  promise  to  be  his  friend,  and  that  she 
had  given  it.  It  put  her  at  peace. 

She  knew  very  well  that  he  had  never  asked  Miss  Ammah  to 
be  his  friend. 

He  was  her  friend,  for  always ;  and  all  eternity  was  before 
them. 

France  found  herself  feeling  strangely  satisfied.  This  strange, 
eventful  summer  was  ending  in  making  her  very  happy. 

Rael  went  in  and  out  about  his  work  and  his  errands.  He 
presumed  upon  nothing.  He  was  chiefly  desirous  to  prove  that 
he  could  care  for  her,  as  she  now  knew  he  did,  without  presum 
ing.  It  is  possible  —  however  almost  incredibly  rare  • —  that 
there  should  be  a  youth  of  manhood  correspondent  to  that  youth 
of  womanhood,  impassioned  first  and  for  a  time  with  an  ardor 
at  once  of  the  highest  and  the  lowliest,  between  which  the 
eagerness  of  self-seeking  waits  as  if  unawakened.  Especially, 
as  here,  when  a  definite,  selfish  seeking  is  made  to  seem  nearly 
preposterous. 

France,  on  her  part,  was  only  anxious  to  go  on  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  to  be  gotten  over,  to  take  this  friendship  frankly, 
as  she  desired  it.  She  ceased  questioning  with  herself.  Those 
old  comparisons  were  over.  It  was  all  settled.  Rael  was  abso 
lutely  worthy :  all  her  interest  had  been  the  finding  out  of 
that,  and  the  hoping  he  would  not  think  too  little  of  her  to 
suppose  that  she  could  find  it ;  of  all  which,  in  the  different 
nature  of  things,  there  had  been  nothing  with  the  other.  This 
subtile  shadow  of  comparison  was  in  the  background. 

Now  she  knew  what  Rael  thought  of  her  :  he  cared  for  her 
to  be  his  friend.  The  happiness  of  that  had  only  its  own 
growing  before  it. 

Within  three  days  from  the  danger  that  had  begun  all  this 
for  her,  and  during  which  it  had  been  but  a  silent  thought  be 
tween  them,  and  their  outward  intercourse  of  the  very  slightest, 
there  came  fresh  letters  from  her  family,  full  of  the  engagement, 
of  course,  full  also  of  new  plans. 


286  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

Mrs.  Everidge  wrote  for  France  to  come  down  and  join  them 
for  a  few  weeks  at  the  seashore.  They  were  all  going  to  Mag 
nolia  together.  Phemie  and  Mr.  Kaynard  liked  it  so  much 
better  than  Princeton  ;  and  it  would  be  good  also  for  the  little 
ones.  Mrs.  Everidge  had  decided  to  allow  them  to  lose  the 
beginning  of  their  school  for  the  gain  of  the  change.  She  said, 
—  "I  feel  that  you  must  have  had  quite  enough  of  that  farm 
house  and  the  sicknesses.  How  unlucky  it  has  all  been !  I 
want  you  to  get  something  really  worth  while  before  the  sea 
son  is  altogether  gone.  Besides,  there  are  so  many  plans  to  be 
thought  over,  and  you  will  soon  be  as  my  '  second  eldest,'  now. 
Miss  Ammah  has  been  very  kind ;  but  I  do  not  think  she  will 
look  upon  it  as  hurrying  you  away  from  her,  after  all  this  while. 
We  shall  expect  you  to  meet  us  in  Boston  on  Monday,  the  20th. 
Send  your  trunks  to  the  Old  Colony  station,  and  take  your 
handbag  for  the  night  at  home,  as  we  shall.  We  leave  again 
next  day.  Your  father  is  in  New  York  on  business ;  will  come 
to  Magnolia  on  his  return." 

Helen  wrote :  — 

"  You  poor,  little,  unfortunate  France !  it  has  n't  been 
worth  while  to  pity  you  too  much  until  we  could  do  something 
about  it ;  but  we  have  pitied  you,  with  your  shut-up  days  in  a 
forlorn  farmhouse  ;  with  your  nursing,  and  your  lame  knee,  and 
your  broken-down  hostess,  and  your  nursing  again ;  everything, 
to  the  very  pole  of  the  wagon,  falling  through  and  upsetting 
you,  in  all  your  pleasant  expectations.  Why  did  n't  you  come 
back  with  papa  1  It  was  such  a  good  opportunity  for  you  to 
get  off. 

"  Now,  we  really  have  a  chance  for  you.  September,  and  even 
October,  is  lovely  at  the  shore ;  and  the  geese  all  fly  away  at 
the  first  cold.  Just  about  the  equinoctial,  you  can  have  your 
choice  of  rooms  and  the  devotion  of  the  hotel  people.  The 
knowing  ones  take  the  vacant  places,  the  cheaper  terms,  and 
the  delicious  kiss-and-make-up  of  the  sunshine.  You  will 
really  get  the  cream  of  the  season.  There  will  be  quite  a  nice 
little  few  whom  you  know,  and  —  but  I  won't  tell  the  best  till 
pou  get  here.  For  ourselves,  we  are  dying  —  especially  me, 


THE   SENSE   OF   IT.  287 

since  Phemie  is  of  no  account  any  longer  —  to  have  you  back 
again.  I  hate  scattering.  It  is  so  much  nicer  every  way  for  a 
family  to  be  a  family.  In  such  places,  people  are  of  far  more 
consequence.  The  Uppertons  are  returning  to  town  ;  that  is 
bad  ;  but  they  have  to.  Madam  Bylaud's  nurse  has  broken 
down,  and  is  leaving  her;  and  the  old  lady  is  very  feeble. 
Enid  hates  it  awfully, — the  leaving,  I  mean,  just  as  —  but  I 
said  I  would  n't  tell  you  ;  only  half  the  girls  that  have  been  and 
gone  will  be  wild  when  they  know. 

"  Never  mind  your  things ;  we  sha'n't  regularly  dress,  now 
that  the  rush  is  over ;  besides,  you  can't  have  had  out  your 
prettiest  up  there  in  the  wilderness.  I  always  think  the  height 
of  the  dressing  is  the  height  of  nonsense.  Nobody  is  anything, 
because  everybody  is  everything.  One  might  as  well  be  a  wire 
frame  at  an  opening.  I  always  save  up  some  delicious  little  sim 
plicities  till  the  fuss  and  feathers  are  over,  and  we  don't  call  it 
dress  and  it  is  n't ;  but  it 's  high  art  all  the  same,  and  it  gets 
appreciated.  I  won't  write  more,  for  on  Monday  we  shall  see 
you.  Kind  regards  to  Miss  Amman." 

How  strangely  it  all  read  to  France  !  Words  out  of  a  differ 
ent  world,  from  away  behind  her,  where  she  had  not  been  for 
so  long.  And  they  overtook  her  here  in  this  quite  other  place 
of  her  life,  where  they  at  home  knew  nothing  of  her  being.  So 
far  apart,  as  they  begin  to  follow  their  separate  lines,  do  those 
of  a  family  drift  and  drift,  and  think  they  are  of  one  household 
all  the  while  ! 

France  wrote  to  her  mother :  — 

"  DEAR  MAMMA,  —  You  are  so  dear  and  kind  to  me,  and  wish  so 
much  to  give  me  pleasure,  that  I  think  you  will  let  me  tell  you 
what  my  pleasure  really  is.  And  please  let  me  say  this  :  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  you  used  to  say  to  me,  '  This  is  best,  Frances  ; 
mamma  knows.'  And  then  you  did  ;  and  so  here  I  am  to-day, 
with  certainly  some  good  sense  in  me  that  I  should  not  have 
had  if  mamma  had  not  known.  Now,  —  I  mean  it  quite1 
daughterly  and  thankfully, — don't  you  think  the  time  is  come 
when  perhaps  I  ought  sometimes  to  be  the  one  to  say,  '  This  is 


288  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

best :  trust  me,  mamma '  1  When  it  only  concerns  myself,  I 
mean ;  if  you  need  me,  I  won't  think  what  is  best  for  myself. 
But  I  am  going  to  just  dare  to  stay  over  next  Monday,  and 
hear  from  you  instead  of  meeting  you  then ;  because  I  am  sure 
it  is  best  for  me  here  a  little  while  longer ;  and  that,  in  some 
ways  that  I  can't  explain,  I  owe  it  to  the  friends  I  am  with  and 
have  made  here,  not  to  run  away  in  what  would  seem  from 
some  special  circumstances  a  hurry  to  get  away.  This  has 
been  a  beautiful  summer  to  me,  and  has  done  me  good.  I 
don't  want  to  break  the  wholeness  of  it  and  patch  on  something 
else.  I  don't  feel  ready  for  the  seashore  or  for  company,  or  for 
all  the  mix  that  it  would  be  at  Magnolia.  When  I  come  home, 
I  want  to  come  right  home,  with  only  you  and  the  girls ;  espe 
cially  now  that  so  much  is  going  to  happen.  I  should  get  odd 
and  fractious,  and  spoil  all  the  other  pretty  parts,  if  I  had  to 
come  down  and  perform  among  the  people  who  will  think  our 
family  affairs  are  just  a  piece  of  society-play,  for  them  to  sit 
audience  at,  and  criticise  or  applaud.  You  don't  know  how 
different  it  is  here  among  these  still,  grand  hills. 

"  I  have  written  my  mind  right  out  to  you,  dear  mamma, 
and  I  hope  you  will  see  the  sense  of  it.     Anyway,  I  am  always, 
—  and  waiting  your  commands  if  you  send  them,  — 
"  Your  loving  daughter, 

"  FRANCE." 

Whether  she  saw  the  sense  of  it  or  not,  as  such,  Mrs.  Ever- 
idge  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  insist.  She  was  a  little 
uneasy  with  her  conjectures,  at  first,  and  had  half  an  impulse  to 
write  four  words  to  Miss  Ammah,  —  "  Is  it  that  minister  ?  " 
But  there  was  in  France's  letter  a  tone  of  generous  confidence 
in  her  confidence  that  made  it  seem  a  sort  of  peeping  and  mean 
ness  to  do  that.  Besides,  she  knew  very  well  that  Miss 
Ammah  was  just  the  one  to  slap  the  door  in  her  face  if  she 
did  peep. 

When  Mr.  Everidge  came  down  to  them,  she  questioned 
him,  and  learned  that  "  that  minister  "  was  no  longer  at  Fellaiden 
for  the  present ;  also,  that,  wherever  he  was,  he  was  a  fine 
fellow,  and  quite  above  the  country-parson  level,  and  was 


THE   SE^SE   OF   IT.  289 

"worth"  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  In  his  own 
mind,  Mr.  Everidge  had  doubts  about  the  dozen  years,  and 
whether  the  very  mention  of  them  were  not  indicative  that 
France  might  have  hastily  spoken,  through  surprise,  what  she 
had  scarcely  made  sure  of,  and  if  she  might  not,  very  early  in 
their  course,  manage  yet  to  make  up  the  other  half  of  that 
worthiness  in  which  she  suddenly  found  herself  lacking.  But 
he  said  nothing  of  all  this  to  his  wife.  He  would  n't  have 
France  bothered.  She  should  do  as  she  pleased. 

Of  course,  Euphemia  and  Helen  said  "  I  told  you  so  "  to 
their  mother,  and  were  each  a  little  offended,  —  Euphemia  that 
the  importance  of  her  engagement  had  not  brought  France 
home,  and  Helen  that  her  charming  letter,  and  the  promotion 
to  her  full  comradeship  in  society,  had  neither  fascinated  nor 
coaxed.  But  Enid  Upperton  stayed  on  at  Magnolia,  accepting 
Mrs.  Everidge's  matronizing  in  return  for  her  mother's  to  Effie 
and  Nell,  and  Helen  was  consoled. 


19 


290  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CROWNED   HEAD. 

THERE  had  been  a  suggestion  at  Fellaiden  for  France  to  see, 
or  see  what  was  to  be  seen  from,  M  Crowned  Head,"  a  high  sum- 
mit  of  the  Back  Hills,  before  she  should  go  home.  This  had 
been  all  put  off,  and  apparently  forgotten  for  a  time,  in  conse 
quence  of  Mrs.  Heybrook's  illness.  But  on  the  very  morning  of 
the  Sunday  of  France's  adventure  with  the  bull,  it  had  been 
adverted  to  again.  Rael  had  spoken  of  it,  as  he  stood  with  the 
two  ladies  on  the  piazza,  where  they  sat  enjoying  the  particular 
deliciousness  of  that  hour  between  breakfast  and  church-time, 
•when  the  hallow  and  rest  of  the  day  have  just  begun,  and  its 
early  beauty  is  like  the  creation-blessing  upon  it. 

The  maples  were  sending  up  shoots  of  flame  all  through  the 
woods,  —  the  first  kindling  of  the  blaze  that  would  be  shortly 
wrapping  the  hills  in  an  indescribable  splendor. 

"  We  ought  not  to  give  up  Crowned  Head,"  Rael  said. 
"  Could  n't  it  be  managed  this  week,  some  day  1" 

Now  Miss  Amman  would  no  more  have  been  driven  up 
Crowned  Head  than  she  would  have  laid  her  own  upon  the 
block,  —  supposing  there  were  blocks  and  executions,  in  these 
eighteen  hundred  and  seventies,  and  in  these  United  States. 
It  was  a  road  that  was  travelled  now  only  by  mountain  torrents, 
and  by  these,  of  course,  not  up,  although  forty  years  ago  it  had 
been  a  post-road  from  one  county  town  straight  over  to  another. 
Mrs.  Heybrook  was  out  of  the  question ;  there  was  only  Sarell, 
and  it  was  pretty  evident  she  could  ill  be  spared,  besides  that 
she  was  on  a  height  of  hurt  dignity  or  feeling,  just  now,  with 
Rael. 

Rael  had  wondered,  rather  severely  —  with  that  gravity  and 
briefness  of  expression  that  were  severe  from  him  —  how  she 


CROWNED    HEAD.  291 

could  think  of  leaving  for  East  Hollow  so  long  as  his  mother 
wished  to  keep  her.  "  She  will  need  somebody  all  winter,"  he 
had  said,  when  Sarell  had  spoken  of  October,  "and  she  has 
always  considered  you." 

It  was  hard  for  the  girl,  when  nothing  —  not  even  walking 
pride  in  a  grass-green  silk —  woxild  have  been  more  to  her 
mind,  if  "  all  things  had  been  accordin',''  than  to  stay  on  with 
the  Heybrooks  through  the  long  half-year.  She  shut  her 
mouth  with  a  secret  sense  of  the  injury  that  nobody  knew,  after 
she  had  said,  once  for  all,  —  "I  sha'n't  leave  nothin'  at  sixes  'n 
sevens,  you  need  n't  think.  I  mean  t'  see  her  p'ovided ;  an* 
I  don't  calk'late  on  no  more  jants  u'r  vis'tius,  after  Sunday. 
I  sh'll  take  hold  'v  the  t'mayters,  an'  pickle  them,  next  week  ; 
an'  week  after,  I  sh'll  go  inte'  the  soft  soap  'n  candles ;  an'  I 
mean  t'  see  t'  the  cider  apple-soss ;  an'  'f  I  anyways  can,  I  '11 
come  over  t'  the  pig-killin'.  But  I  know  -where  my  dooty  is, 
betwixt  then  'n  then,  ef  't  is  you,  Rael  Heybrook."  And  as  Rael 
received  her  words  in  silence,  she  had  turned  a  spasmodic  chok 
ing  in  her  throat  into  a  desperately  exaggerated  clearing  of  the 
same,  and  resumed  her  mopping  down  of  the  already  stainless 
shed-room  floor,  with  an  extra  dip  into  the  pail  of  clear  water, 
and  a  sweep  along  the  boards  that  was  as  good  as  a  dismissal  to 
him  ;  and  after  she  had  so  sent  him  off,  flung  down  mop  and 
all,  rushed  up  into  her  bedroom  overhead,  and  had  a  good 
hearty  five-minutes'  cry,  into  which  she  put  all  the  misery  and 
relief  that  might  have  consumed  days  and  nights  with  a  more 
leisurely  heroine. 

Sarell,  you  see,  had  to  get  the  dinner,  and  she  could  not 
afford  to  turn  her  sleeping  into  weeping  hours.  She  did  her 
grief  up  as  it  came  along,  as  she  would  have  done  any  other 
"  chore,"  and  it  was  disposed  of. 

But  she  was  on  her  dignity  of  secret  consciousness ;  there 
would  be  no  "  skylarkin'  "  for  her  off  to  Crowned  Head. 

"Will  you  let  me  drive  Miss  France,  if  she  will  go,  on  the. 
little  buckboard  ] "  asked  Rael  outright. 

Miss  Ammah  looked  up  at  him,  straight  into  his  modest, 
honest  face.  He  would  hardly  have  asked  that  of  her,  that 
way,  had  there  been  anything  behind.  "  I  don't  see  any 


292  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

reason  why  not,"  she  said.  And  with  those  words  for  all  in 
junction,  even  if  she  could  have  seen  down  into  his  very  heart 
as  it  was  that  day,  she  would  have  trusted  him  to  be  wise  for 
himself  and  scrupulous  for  France.  But  she  was  really  just 
now  in  the  innocence  of  "invincible  ignorance." 

France  said  nothing,  but  her  face  softly  beamed. 

That,  however,  had  all  happened  in  the  morning. 

On  the  Tuesday  had  come  one  of  those  mountain  changes  in 
the  weather  which  shut  up  the  beauty  in  heavy  mists,  replacing 
it  only  with  the  rolling  grandeur  of  the  vapors,  and  the  wild 
deluge  of  rain  that  sounds  among  numberless  leafy  branches 
and  mingles  its  rush  with  the  noise  of  the  swollen  cascades  till 
the  whole  world  seems  a  sweep  and  plash  of  falling  waters. 

It  was  cold  as  it  is  in  September  in  high  places  when  the  sun 
hides,  and  Miss  Ammah  and  France  had  been  glad  to  have  the 
little  stove  in  the  room  of  the  former  lighted  with  a  fire,  and 
the  two  chambers  thrown  together  for  the  pleasant  warmth. 
The  rain  and  the  chill  had  continued  till  Thursday,  then 
the  wind  took  a  grand,  swift  march  around  the  hill-ranges, 
coming  out  from  the  clear  northwest,  and  on  Thursday  night 
there  was  a  first  white  frost.  It  had  been  on  Thursday  that 
France  had  answered  her  letters. 

Friday  and  Saturday  were  busy  days  at  the  farm,  with  work 
crowded  forward  from  the  early  week  by  the  storm.  Mrs.  Hey- 
brook  was  about  the  house  in  a  quiet  way,  and  everybody  was 
hindering  her,  with  all  possible  forestallings,  from  finding  any 
work  to  take  up  again.  France  had  long  since  assumed  the 
regular  charge  of  the  table  business,  the  spreading  and  remov 
ing,  and  had  instituted  her  own  little  washing  arrangements  on 
the  spot,  that  the  work  might  not  pass  over  at  all  into  Sarell's 
department,  to  make  her  own  help  a  daily  offer  and  refusal  and 
a  consequent  armed  insistance.  Up  stairs  she  swept  and  dusted, 
and  she  kept  the  parlor  open  and  cheery  by  the  daily  freshening 
touches  which  country  parlors  are  hardly  apt  to  get,  and  so  settle 
into  that  indescribable  deadness  of  original  pleasant  order  that 
comes  from  things  unstirred.  These  things  were  truly  among 
the  strong  motives  and  "  special  circumstances  "  that  had  in 
duced  her  to  assert  herself  as  to  the  present  best  and  right  for 


CROWNED   HEAD.  293 

her,  and  stay  on  in  the  "  midst "  that  she  was  making.  But, 
undeniably,  it  was  also  that  she  must  have  a  little  more  time 
now  for  the  clear  establishing  of  the  "  friendship  "  that  had  been 
asked  and  given.  She  could  not  have  run  away  from  the  first 
word  of  that  and  make  it,  perhaps,  the  last.  She  must  see,  and 
let  Rael  Heybrook  see,  how  it  was  between  her  and  him  after 
that  close  coming  ;  that  "  Forgive  me  "  which  had  taken  back 
nothing,  but  only  acknowledged  what  it  sought  pardon  for. 
She  must  let  him  see  that  she  forgave,  that  she  was  not  afraid, 
that  she  was  glad  to  have  him  care  for  her  to  be  his  friend. 

Would  he  ask  her  again,  after  all,  to  go  with  him  to  Crowned 
Head  1  She  thought  she  must  at  least  wait  to  know  ;  that 
she  must  not  let  him  suppose  she  ran  away  from  any  embarrass 
ment  of  their  intercourse,  as  such  intercourse  would  naturally 
have  been. 

The  storm  and  the  frost  over,  there  came  days  again  of 
glorious  sunshine,  and  between  the  keenness  and  the  softness 
was  born  the  early  glory  of  the  forests.  The  maples  were 
catching  fire  from  bough  to  bough  ;  the  sumachs  were  shooting 
forth  their  crimson  signal-rockets ;  the  little  birches  were 
"  dancers  in  yellow  " ;  the  chestnuts  began  to  show  beside  them 
their  contrasting  harmonies  of  amber-brown  ;  and  though  the 
great  old  oaks,  latest  to  change,  held  steadfastly  their  grave 
dignity  of  green,  a  young  sapling  here  and  there  had  put  on  the 
family  jewels,  and  was  soberly  magnificent  with  carbuncle. 
The  colors  were  early ;  therefore  would  be  most  beautiful  and 
perfect  this  year.  In  the  warm,  sheltered  places  and  on  the 
southerly  inclines,  the  hardy  pasture  flowers  were  still  bravely 
bright.  It  was  the  exquisite  point  of  ripening  before  decay 
began. 

A  week  later  than  they  had  first  spoken  of,  Rael  said  to 
France  one  morning,  "Crowned  Head  will  be  splendid  now. 
I  should  like  you  to  see  it.  Will  you  go  1 " 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  grave,  pleasant  smile.  His  eyes 
met  hers  clearly.  "Will  you  gol"  was  "Will  you  trust  me1?" 
not  as  it  might  have  been,  and  sometimes  is,  "  Will  you  come 
and  listen  to  me,  will  you  answer  all  I  have  to  say?"  It  was 
rather,  "  I  have  said  all :  you  need  have  no  fear  of  me." 


294  ODD,   OK  EVEN? 

France  met  his  look  with  one  as  like  it  as  he  could  have 
prayed  for.  It  said,  "  I  believe  you,  utterly.  I  trust  you  with 
all  that  there  is  between  us.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be 
spoken ;  but,  happen  what  may,  we  are  friends  absolutely,  for 
always."  So  she  told  him  she  would  go. 

Do  you  begin  to  blame  France,  according  to  the  punctilio  of 
the  world,  which  the  world,  in  its  ways,  needs  indeed,  but  which 
might  not  be  needed  were  the  world's  children  the  children  of 
light  1  I  think  she  was  but  following  in  utmost  truth,  so  far 
as  it  opened  before  her,  the  way  of  her  noblest,  hopefulest  life, 
and  the  promise  of  it,  that  could  not  all  quite  yet  be  read.  She 
might  be  conscious  that  she  was  becoming,  had  already  become, 
a  great  deal  to  Rael  Heybrook  in  his  very  highest  sympathies, 
in  the  very  stronghold  of  his  nature.  She  might  know  that  he 
had  never  found  a  friend  like  her  before.  She  might  know, 
even,  that  if  after  this  permission  and  continuance  she  were  to 
go  away  and  let  it  be  the  end,  if  she  were  to  take  up  other 
pleasant  intercourse  and  let  it  obliterate  all  this,  if  she  were  to 
put  ties  and  claims  that  could  not  be  spoken  of  here  and  now 
between  her  and  it,  —  she  would  make  this  that  she  was  doing 
now  an  injury,  a  wrong.  But  she  could  not  possibly  imagine 
that  she  should  do  any  such  thing.  Whatever  this  friendship 
were,  or  whatever  in  the  eternity  it  had  begun,  it  should  come 
to,  it  was  first  before  and  forever  different  from  anything  that 
could  come  again.  She  meant  to  live  it  out,  whatever  it  should 
come  to.  She  could  not  look  forward,  —  she  put  that  thought 
away,  —  but  she  could  go  forward,  as  Rael  was  going,  as  she 
knew  he  would  go.  All  this  had  defined  itself  in  her  in  sub 
stance  during  this  last  week,  though  she  had  not  set  it  out  in 
words  to  herself.  What  it  might  be  to  them,  —  to  her,  —  after 
their  present  intercourse  was  broken,  to  go  and  to  remain  apart ; 
what  might  be  between  of  hindrance  from  the  very  fact  that 
through  these  days  there  had  been  something  that  had  not  been 
spoken,  and  that  she  would  remember  she  had  turned  from  hear 
ing  as  certainly  as  he  had  stopped  from  saying,  —  she  had  not 
realized.  In  the  truest  living  there  are  some  mistakes. 

But  they  went  away  to  Crowned  Head  together.  In  a  joy  as 
clear  and  pure  as  the  golden  day  itself,  —  in  an  atmosphere  as 


CROWNED   HEAD.  295 

high  above  all  earthly  cloud  and  soil,  —  they  climbed  the 
mountain  ways  into  yet  wider  delight,  yet  rarer  and  more  buoy 
ant  airs. 

The  little  buckboard  wagon,  with  its  one  seat  tilting  so  easily 
in  the  middle,  the  low  hang  of  it,  —  so  that  a  step  would  take 
one  to  the  ground,  —  the  slow  movement  over  the  constantly 
ascending  road,  these  were  more  like  some  delightful  self-move 
ment  without  fatigue  along  the  lovely  slopes,  among  these 
thousand  exquisite  things  of  late  bloom  and  leafage,  bright,  run 
ning  water  and  live  glistening  rock,  just  at  their  feet  even, 
than  like  riding  over  and  past  them  at  a  height  beyond  the 
enjoyment  that  belongs  to  a  ramble  in  their  midst. 

They  turned  from  the  high  road  —  if  the  brown,  soft,  narrow, 
winding  track  from  point  to  point  among  the  scattered  farmsteads 
ever  seems  like  a  high  road  —  at  about  half  a  mile's  distance 
from  home;  then  they  began  the  real  climb,  up  a  cart-path 
traversed  only  by  farming  teams,  and  by  these  very  little  of 
late  years,  and  by  the  charcoal  wains  that  came  from  some  coal 
pits  away  back  in  the  high  denies.  It  was  rough  in  the  extreme, 
or  France  would  have  said  so  then,  before  she  had  come  to  the 
real  extreme,  when  they  struck  off  yet  further  from  frequented 
tracks  and  followed,  up  the  flank  of  the  Crown  Mountain,  what 
she  could  hardly  Relieve  had  been  the  post-road  Rael  told  her  of. 

Before  they  came  to  this  they  passed  one  solitary,  poor  house 
—  a  mere  roofed  pen  it  seemed  —  on  a  flat  of  turf  where  the 
road  wound  round  a  kind  of  terrace.  Here  they  stopped  for  the 
"  colt "  to  rest  a  minute  or  two.  France  asked  what  human 
being  could  ever  have  lived  up  here. 

"  O,  for  that  matter,"  Rael  told  her,  "  a  great  many  human 
beings  have  lived,  and  lived  pretty  well  too,  on  this  long  moun 
tain.  I  can  remember  when  a  wagon-load  of  them  used  to  come 
down  and  round  to  the  Centre  to  church  every  Sunday  morning. 
But  they  have  been  dwindling  out,  and  the  houses  and  farms 
going  to  pieces  and  going  wild  for  a  great  good  while.  One 
human  being  lives  in  this  house  now ;  at  least,  she  has  n't  four 
feet,  like  those." 

A  family  of  pigs  was  rooting  and  smelling  about  the  closed 
door;  this  was  propped  up  with  a  timber;  it  kept  the  pigs  out  : 


296  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

nobody  else,  apparently,  would  wish  to  get  in.  Being  set 
against  it  on  the  outside,  it  gave  evidence  that  the  occupant 
had  gone  out  of  her  dwelling.  To  think  that  it  should  be  a 


woman 


"Her  name  is  Betsey  Bushell.  She  lived  here  with  her 
father  and  mother;  they  were  a  kind  of  wandering  paupers, 
getting  shelter  where  they  could  from  time  to  time,  and  finally 
settling  here.  It  was  coming  over  here,  from  the  next  county, 
where  they  were  threatened  with  the  almshouse,  that  Betsey 
lost  her  mother  in  the  woods." 

"  Lost  her  !     Was  she  never  found  1 " 

"  Never  so  much  as  her  shoes.  She  disappeared  utterly. 
Betsey  spent  part  of  the  night  searching  for  her,  according  to 
her  own  account,  —  the  old  woman  had  stopped,  she  said,  and  re 
fused  to  go  on,  and  she  herself  had  kept  forward,  thinking  she 
would  follow,  but  finding  she  did  n't,  went  back  to  where  she 
had  left  her,  and  found  her  gone,  —  and  the  rest  of  it  in  another 
old  shanty,  a  mile  back.  Men  turned  out  and  searched  the 
mountain ;  but  they  never  came  upon  any  trace.  Whether 
she  wandered  altogether  away  and  lived  a  while  elsewhere,  or 
•whether  —  well,  it  was  always  a  queer  story,  and  a  kind  of 
doubtful  one.  Not  pleasant  to  think  of,  when  Betsey  brought 
berries  to  sell,  and  begged  bits  of  cheese  and  pork  or  an  old 
gown  of  my  mother." 

"  The  father  ] "  asked  France,  horrified. 

"  He  died  a  few  years  ago.  He  was  a  dreadful  character. 
And  here  Betsey  burrows  yet.  If  you  were  to  look  in  at  that 
window  "  —  France  shuddered  —  "  you  would  see  a  pile  of  rags 
for  a  bed  in  one  corner ;  a  pile  of  potatoes  for  food  in  another ; 
the  refuse  of  a  week's  meals  in  another ;  an  old,  dirty,  broken 
stove  in  the  middle,  and  maybe  a  pan  of  meal  under  it.  That 's 
what  I  saw  there  once." 

"  And  a  human  creature  lives  so !  Rael,  it 's  awful !  "  With 
the  divine  thrill  of  the  real  human  in  her  at  this  desolation 
and  degradation,  France  felt  herself  drawn  nearer,  as  for  refuge, — 
nearer,  also,  with  the  fellowship  of  clean  and  noble  nature,  that 
must  pity  such  things  with  horror,  —  to  Israel,  her  friend  ;  and 
his  simple  name  dropped  from  her  lips,  the  utterance  of  that 
feeling. 


CROWNED   HEAD.  297 

"Yes,"  said  Rael,  with  a  breath's  pause  after  the  word, 
where  he  did  not  speak  her  name  in  like  manner  :  "  and  in  this 
beautiful  place,  too,  with  the  sky  and  the  trees  and  that  clean- 
running  water  preaching  to  her  all  the  time !  It 's  hard  to 
understand." 

"  Or  to  help  ? "  asked  France. 

"  The  help  ought  to  have  been  a  great  way  back,"  said  Rael. 
"  It  ought  to  have  been  a  hindrance." 

They  went  on  into  the  rocky,  disused  side  road. 

The  quiet,  sensible  old  "  colt  "  pushed  his  way,  brushing  the 
branches  with  his  head,  and  scrambling  over  the  broken  stones 
and  along  the  irregular,  nearly  untraceable  ruts,  sometimes 
crossing  the  face  of  a  smooth-worn  outcrop  of  granite,  in  which 
were  the  old  marks  of  wheels  that  had  scored  it  years  and  years 
ago.  "You  can  see  that  there  has  been  heavy  travel  here," 
said  Rael. 

The  leaves  had  not  begun  to  fall ;  the  colors  bloomed  from 
heaps  of  summer  green ;  the  little  asters  and  the  golden-rod 
and  spikes  of  purple  and  of  white  mountain  blossoms  that 
France  knew  no  name  for,  clustered  by  the  borders  ;  and  the 
young,  tangled  woodland,  that  was  springing  up  for  miles  where 
the  old  timber  had  been  long  cut  off,  pressed  close  upon  the 
pass.  Here  and  there  a  break  of  pasture-land  gave  freer 
thoroughfare  and  continually  enlarging  outlook  from  one  open 
ing  to  another.  Already  they  could  see,  in  the  unfolding  and 
lifting  of  the  southern  range,  other  shoulders  and  summits 
rearing  or  gliding  into  view  than  those  they  were  familiar  with 
at  Fellaiden  West  Side.  Behind  the  dark-green  wall  of  Thumble, 
that  began  to  look  low  upon  their  right,  stood  sunny  heights, 
some  of  them  with  mellow  patches  of  just-reaped  oat-fields  near 
their  very  tops ;  and  here  and  there  a  distant  blue,  cloudy  tip 
revealed  itself  between  one  and  another  of  the  crowding  earth- 
waves,  over  whose  heads  the  great  horizon  widened  as  over  a 
tossed,  no  longer  tossing,  sea. 

At  one  place,  Rael  stopped  his  horse  again.  "  There  ! "  he 
said,  "  it  was  just  here.  You  can  see  the  cellar-mound,  all 
washed  in  and  filled  up  and  grown  over.  That  WPS  a  house 
when  I  was  a  little  child.  Here  was  the  old  garden.  See  the 


298  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

red  balm  in  bloom  there  now,  and  the  bushes  of  sweet  srnel- 
lage.  I  came  here  with  my  father,  once  ;  some  old  people  lived 
here  —  Brayne,  their  name  was  —  and  the  old  lady  gave  me 
flowers.  They  both  died  soon  after ;  then  the  house  was 
burned  ;  and  that  was  the  last  of  the  place.  Over  there,"  point 
ing  to  a  blackened  shell  of  a  building  on  the  left,  higher  up, 
whither  some  now  altogether  overgrown  roadway  must  have 
led,  "was  the  Silvernails'  Farm.  They  were  Germans,  from  York 
State;  then  there  were  the  Greatraxes,  —  they  lived  off  a  little 
way  to  the  west.  Why,  it 's  all  changed  in  twenty  years  and 
less.  I  can  remember  all  the  names ;  there  were  people  left  of 
them  in  the  towfl  when  I. was  a  boy;  but  all  these  farms  have 
been  deserted  long  ago." 

"Why!"  asked  France.  "I  mean,  one  doesn't  so  much 
wonder,  away  up  here,  as  facilities  increased  in  other  places, 
but  why  are  there  these  '  deserted  houses '  all  about  1  \Ve  have 
seen  them  in  all  our  drives." 

"Oh,  land  run  out,  timber  cut  off,  young  men  gone  off  West 
and  to  the  cities,  and  old  folks  dying ;  the  mountain  farms 
washed  off  gradually,  and  the  land  turned  poor.  All  sorts  of 
reasons ;  but  I  don't  like  it.  I  don't  want  it  to  spread  ;  and  it 
is  spreading.  I  think  this  is  a  grand  piece  of  the  Lord's  world  ; 
I  was  born  here  and  I  love  it.  I  'd  like  to  be  fit  for  as  much 
as  I  could  be  made  fit  for ;  and  then  I  don't  know  but  I  'd  like 
to  see  —  well,  I  won't  begin  upon  that  now,  though  I  mean  to 
tell  you,  if  you  will  let  me.  That 's  one  of  the  things  I  'd  like 
to  talk  about." 

This  silent,  proud  Rael  who  talked  to  so  few  !  This  was  how 
he  wanted  her  also,  now,  to  be  his  friend,  —  to  enter  into  his 
life  with  him,  and  help  him  to  understand  it. 

"  You  need  think  of  no  if  in  the  way.  You  may  be  sure  that 
I  shall  always  be  glad  that  you  can  like  to  talk  to  me  of  these 
things,"  France  answered  him ;  and  the  gladness  subdued  itself 
in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 

They  came  to  one  or  two  places  where  it  was  needful  to  alight 
and  walk  up  rifts  and  heaps  that  were  like  beds  of  little  water 
falls  ;  where  the  colt  lifted  himself,  and  Rael,  going  behind, 
lifted  the  little  buckboard  to  the  upper  grade.  They  threaded 


CROWNED   HEAD.  299 

turns  where  the  track  led  them  right  into  pieces  of  thicket,  and 
they  had  to  push  the  branches  forward  with  much  strength, 
and  stoop  their  heads  to  their  knees  almost,  to  avoid  the  recoil ; 
these  bits  passed,  they  seemed  like  gates  that  had  let  them 
through  into  new,  secluded  mountain  chambers,  where  the  road 
lay  across  sweet-smelling  turf,  and  the  trees  stood  back  about 
grand  areas,  open  only  to  the  sky,  and  to  the  far-off  glimpses  of 
lines  of  hill-top  higher  yet. 

At  last  they  altogether  left  the  cart-way,  which  continued  on 
down  a  side  incline,  and  through  a  half-way  bit  of  valley,  to  an 
ascent  beyond,  upon  and  over  another  open  brow  of  highland. 
Eael  let  down  some  pasture-bars,  and  led  the  horse  through 
upon  a  wild,  rich,  moorland  swell,  the  south-lying  bosom  of 
"  Crowned  Head " ;  where,  turning  at  right  angles  from  their 
direction  hitherto,  they  faced  nothing  but  its  billowy  rise,  that 
swept  upward  toward  the  line  of  scattered  pines,  which,  sur 
rounding  the  bare,  rocky  summit  of  the  mountain,  showed  at  a 
distance  like  a  circlet  about  a  bald  head,  and  had  given  the 
crest  its  name. 

They  left  the  woodland  behind  them  ;  they  rode,  wheel-deep, 
through  a  great  sea  of  mountain  flowers  and  shrubs  and  grasses, 
tall,  sweet  ferns,  and  broad,  white  beds  of  bloom  of  the  upland 
everlasting;  blazing  patches  of  most  richly  feathered  golden-rods, 
that  heaped  themselves  here  in  solid-looking  banks  ;  underneath 
were  the  green  trail  of  creeping-Jenny,  and  the  lovely,  erect 
plumes  of  princess-pine  ;  now  and  then,  where  this  had  fruited, 
the  horse's  feet  trod  down  on  to  a  patch  of  seedy  spires,  from 
which  a  smoky  puff  suddenly  ascended,  as  if  he  had  struck  out 
a  fire.  Then  there  would  come  a  little  interval  of  waste,  that 
was  no  waste ;  for  all  over  the  ground,  that  looked  compara 
tively  so  herbless,  stood  up  the  modest  little  spikes  of  penny 
royal,  with  their  stinted  leaves  and  minutest  delicate-purple 
corollas ;  and  with  the  crush  of  hoof  and  wheel,  up  floated  the 
spicy  fragrance,  and  enveloped  them  with  its  viewless  cloud  of 
incense.  Among  it  were  scattered  taller  stems  of  close-blos 
soming,  deeper  purple  gall-of-the-earth,  rare  and  precious  to 
the  country  folk  as  a  stomachic ;  and  faint-colored,  tiny,  tawny 
blooms,  spiked  also,  like  a  kind  of  scanty-flowering  heath. 


300  ODD,   OR    EVEN  ? 

A  belt  of  rocks  stopped  the  wagon.  Beyond  this,  and  be 
tween  it  and  the  grand,  solid  mountain  head,  was  the  growth 
of  pines.  Rael  unbuckled  a  rein,  and  turned  a  heavy  stone 
upon  its  trailing  end,  tethering  the  horse  safely ;  then  he  and 
France  climbed  up  between  the  craggy  points  and  boulders, 
crossed,  the  pine-belt,  whose  resinous  wood  was  odorous  in  the 
sun,  and  came  upon  the  final  height  of  the  bare  Head,  above 
the  Crown.  Here,  at  first,  there  were  lichens  and  deep-tufted 
gray  moss  under  their  feet ;  then  the  storm-washed,  naked 
stone  ;  at  last  they  stood  upon  the  highest  curve,  —  huge,  round 
ing  away  in  such  a  stretch  as  to  make  to  itself  an  island  rim, 
that  if  you  sat  low  in  the  midst,  was  its  own  horizon,  and  the 
hilltop  seemed  as  a  little  planet  one  might  walk  around,  yet 
hung  there  in  that  wonderful  blue,  whose  sailing  clouds  dropped 
their  white  skirts  so  near. 

Walking  out  towards  its  edges,  was  met  at  every  point  the 
glorious  outlook,  downward  and  off;  all  around  from  lessened 
Thumble,  with  white  Scarface  rising  distantly  beyond  him ; 
Great  Quarry  Hill,  with  the  white  excavation  gleaming  like  the 
lines  of  a  fair-built  city  against  the  dusky  side ;  the  dun, 
shadowy  mass  of  Iron  Top ;  the  points  and  dips  of  cloud-like 
ranges,  stretching  from  north  to  south,  away  down  through  the 
sun-flooded  west ;  a  pond  shining  in  a  deep  nook  between  cliffs 
and  forests ;  wooded  crests,  close  by,  mounding  up  like  islands, 
or  like  neighbor  asteroids ;  golden  patches  of  sere  grass  or 
harvest  stubble  or  ripe  millet,  lying  bright  upon  their  sunward 
slants ;  all  the  way  down  the  soft  declivities  to  the  wide,  far- 
below  valley  on  the  west,  beautiful  dints  and  swells  of  farm 
lands,  in  every  lovely  tint  of  olive-green  and  buff  and  gold, 
the  red-brown  of  the  ripe  buckwheat,  and  the  sunny  brown  of 
the  fallows,  separated  and  quilted  down  with  the  low-running 
lines  of  fences ;  white  villages,  their  modest  churches  standing 
a  little  apart,  in  week-day  stillnessr  under  tall  trees  ;  roadways, 
linking  them  and  ribboning  the  green ;  a  mazy,  blue-running 
stream  marking  the  bed  of  the  dale ;  far,  far  off,  a  dazzling 
shine  of  water,  straight  beneath  the  sun,  between  those  faint 
blue  slopes  just  under  the  sky  line  and  a  break  in  the  group  of 
nearer,  smaller  hills ;  that  was  a  loop  of  the  Connecticut. 


CROWNED    HEAD.  301 

Rael  stood  with  his  head  bared,  as  he  was  apt  to  do  in  grand 
places;  the  wind  blew  his  hair  back  and  his  face  looked  noble 
with  the  far  reach  in  his  eyes,  and  the  strong,  satisfied  quiet 
about  the  lines  of  his  lips ;  one  hand  crossed  the  wrist  of  the 
other  as  it  dropped  before  him,  holding  his  hat. 

France  had  taken  care  not  to  let  her  hair  fly  ;  for  a  woman, 
that  is  hardly  ever  anything  but  untidy  except  in  a  picture ;  it 
was  held  in  its  pretty  order  by  her  veil  across  the  brim  of  her 
hat ;  but  the  veil  floated  out  in  a  soft,  blue-gray  haze,  and  her 
face  freshened  and  brightened  in  the  sweep  of  the  breeze  that 
came  straight  across  those  pure  depths  to  them  without  an 
earth-touch  on  its  way ;  and  she  glowed  —  eyes,  cheeks,  and  all 
—  with  the  deepening  delight  that  she  was  drinking  in.  She 
held  in  her  hand  a  bunch  of  golden  and  lavender  and  purple, 
with  the  white  of  the  life  everlasting. 

They  made  a  picture, —  they  two, —  standing  there  in  the 
midst  of  this  wide  earth  and  sky,  the  only  human  figures ;  they 
might  have  been  Adam  and  Eve  in  a  new  and  braver  sort  of 
Paradise.  A  few  gentle-eyed  cows  grazed  on  the  level  just 
below  the  wall  of  rocks ;  they  had  lifted  their  heads,  as  the 
creatures  might  have  done  in  Eden,  to  the  beautiful,  superior 
pair  as  they  passed  up ;  now,  there  was  only  the  low,  sweet 
tinkle  of  a  bell  coming  up  from  beneath,  to  remind  that  any 
life  was  near  but  theirs,  who  were  so  silently  receiving,  in 
a  happy  wonder,  the  Word  of  all  that  praiseful  manifest. 

At  last  they  turned  to  each  other.  "  I  would  n't  have  had 
you  miss  this,"  said  Rael ;  and  "Oh,  I  thank  you  so  for  bring 
ing  me  !  "  France  said  at  the  same  instant,  with  a  long-escaping 
breath  of  emphasis. 

It  was  as  if  the  beauty  of  all  this,  and  more,  had  been  for 
her  in  his  heart ;  as  if  here  there  had  only  been  something 
ready-made  that  could  but  barely  hint  what  he  would  think 
and  wish  for  her  and  bring  her  to,  and  as  if,  on  her  part,  the 
joy  of  joy  was  that  it  had  come  through  him.  Yet  they  were 
most  common  words,  and  neither  thought  except  most'  simply 
in  the  saying  of  them.  .  So  did  they  stand  among  most  com 
mon  forms  of  things, —  grass,  herb,  tree,  rock,  sky.  Bat  there 
was  all  that  could  be  put  into  such  forms ;  it  was  the  much  of 


302  ODD,    OR    EVEN  ? 

it ;  there  was  all,  too,  that  could  be  put  into  those  little  sen 
tences. 

"  It  is  dry  here ;  will  you  sit  down  and  rest  ? "  Rael  asked 
her,  and  he  found  her  a  place  where  the  rock  shelved  and  made 
a  seat,  warm  in  the  sunshine.  A  little  way  off,  where  he  could 
just  speak  in  a  low,  natural  tone,  and  be  heard  by  her,  but 
without  the  least  unnecessary  approach,  he  seated  himself. 
They  were  at  right  angles  to  each  other.  She  faced  the  west 
ern  outspread  and  glory ;  she  had  to  shade  her  eyes  with  a  pine 
bough  that  he  gave  her  for  a  parasol ;  the  sunlight  fell  upon 
him  obliquely,  sidewise,  giving  a  glow  and  shade  that  threw 
out  the  lines  of  his  head  and  face  in  their  fine  character.  So 
he  spoke,  and  she  listened. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  hardly  fair,"  he  said,  "  to  bring  you  to  a  place 
like  this,  and  ask  your  judgment  upon  the  thing  I  want  it  in. 
There  is  too  much  in  the  Fellaiden  scale.  It  is  too  grand  to  be 
here.  You  see  what  my  question  is  1 " 

"Yes,"  said  France.  "Whether  to  stay  here1?"  Her  tone 
was  scarcely  an  inquiry, —  it  was  just  short  of  assertion  ;  and  she 
waited  for  his  answer. 

"  I  want  to  live  a  life  that  is  worth  while,"  said  Israel.  "  I 
want  to  make  the  best  of  myself,  and  do  the  best  with  the 
making  of  me.  I  knew  I  needed  to  learn ;  so  I  have  been  to 
school,  and  down  there  at  the  institute ;  and  it  opened  out,  and 
I  should  have  followed  the  opening  if  there  had  not  been  a 
plain  duty  to  call  me  back  here.  Now,  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  the 
very  best  of  me  might  do  the  best  in  just  this  spot,  where  I  was 
born.  I  doubt  if  it  is  good  for  all  the  power  —  as  it  comes  to  be 
p0wer  —  to  drift  together  into  the  great  centres  and  channels, 
and  to  leave  the  country  drained.  It  is  like  all  the  blood  that 
should  be  all  over  the  body  determining  itself  to  the  heart  or 
the  brain.  Capacity,  intelligence,  right-mindedness,  are  needed 
up  here  among  the  farms.  Men  .who  can  come  to  influence, 
and  use  influence,  are  wanted.  If  I  could  be  such  a  man,"  — 
he  paused  a  second,  as  if  before  a  seeming  assumption  ;  then  he 
went  on,  simply,  "  I  should  not  be  satisfied  with  being  less  of  a 
man  anywhere, —  I  would  like  to  try  what  I  could  do  in  my 
own  natural  place.  Things  were  pretty  much  settled ;  but 


CROWNED   HEAD.  303 

there  is  a  fresh  start  and  possibility,  now  that  Miss  Ammah 
has  given  me  this  lift.  There  are  months  in  the  year  when  I 
might  go  on  with  preparing  myself, —  I  might  afford  to  go  away 
from  home,  leaving  help  enough  here  for  the  time, —  and  be 
ready,  some  time,  for  work  outside,  in  the  world.  Would  you 
do  it,  Miss  France,  or  would  you  stay  here  ] " 

"  I  would  be  ready,"  France  answered.  "  That  is  what  you 
mean  to  be  ] " 

"  Yes,  ready  for  anything,  with  the  whole  of  me.  The  ques 
tion  is,  where  I  can  put  the  whole  of  me  to  work.  A  man 
must  choose  something  definite,  and  he  has  to  choose  early.  It 
is  not  so  very  early  now,  in  my  case.  Living  does  n't  run  even, 
if  plans  ai-e  put  off  too  long.  One  part  outgrows  another, 
and  there  come  times,  circumstances,  when,  for  want  of  readi 
ness,  they  miss  the  join.  I  won't  miss  anything  that  I  might 
be  or  have ;  I  will  come,  please  God,  to  all  I  was  meant  for ! " 

His  head  went  up,  erectly,  and  his  eyes  flashed  their  proud 
determination  straight  into  France's  eyes,  as  she  looked  over  at 
him.  Hers  lit  up  respond ingly.  "  Please  Him,  I  think  you 
will,  Rael,"  she  answered,  with  a  warmth  as  brave  as  his. 

"Shall  I  go,  or  stay1?"  he  repeated.  "Shall  I  get  ready 
with  this  purpose,  or  with  that  ?  for  the  purpose  makes  itself 
out.  There  are  good,  honest  engineers  —  men  who  won't 
cheapen  human  life  in  cheapening  wood  or  iron,  or  have  a  stroke 
less  of  labor  in  a  work  than  the  work  needs  —  wanted,  in  all 
the  great  branchings  out  of  manufacture  and  communication  ; 
and  sometimes  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  there,  in  the  thick 
of  things.  And  sometimes  I  remember  that  the  springs  are  up 
here,  in  the  quiet  places  among  the  hills ;  and  that  the  Pyra 
mid  in  the  border  of  the  land  was  in  the  centre,"  he  finished, 
smiling. 

"  That  there  are  middles  out  in  all  the  edges,"  France  added, 
in  like  manner. 

"Yes,  that  sermon  put  a  good  deal  into  my  head,"  said  Rael, 
"  or  put  into  shape  a  good  deal  that  was  there  already.  Mr. 
Kingsworth  is  acting  out  his  own  word.  He  keeps  out.  of  the 
drift  of  ministers, —  it  is  just  as  bad  as  the  other  drift, —  to 
where  the  people  have  everything  else,  and  where  the  big  sala- 


304  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

ries  and  the  easy  famousness  are.  He  is  doing  a  great  work  in 
this  out-of-the-way  edge,  and  he  wants  help.  There  is  no  reason 
why  men  should  not  be  strong  —  strong  for  the  whole  country 
and  the  world  —  in  these  out  places.  Under  our  government, 
—  if  it  is  to  be  redeemed  and  fulfil  itself, —  all  places  are  in  the 
midst.  That  is  what  I  think,  that  self-seeking  runs  to  the 
great,  quick  chances,  the  crowded  places ;  and  that  half  the 
crowded  places  ought  never  to  be.  That  if  there  were  none 
too  crowded,  too  absorbing,  there  would  be  none  too  thin,  too  ill- 
supplied." 

France,  woman-like,  catching  the  suggestion,  sprang  to  grand, 
sweeping  conclusions.  "  I  see,"  she  said.  "  '  God  made  the  coun 
try  ;  man  makes  the  town.'  If  everybody  did  only  the  true 
between  work, —  if  everybody  had  a  chance  to  do  it, —  there 
would  not  be  great,  overgrown  cities.  Perhaps  men's  enter 
prises  would  be  of  altogether  a  different  shape, —  that  they 
would  come  to  without  expecting ;  that  they  do  not  know 
how  to  expect,  as  things  are.  They  would  scatter ;  carry 
everywhere,  instead  of  gathering  into  a  few  great  centres  where 
they  can  turn  things  over  and  over,  and  from  hand  to  hand, 
making  every  man  his  own  pinch  out  of  them.  Every  man 
would  be  making  the  most  of  some  little  piece  of  the  world, — 
not  spoiling  it, —  and  everything  would  be  brought  to  eveiy 
man's  door." 

She  flushed  beautifully  as  she  spoke.  She  had  a  little  glimpse 
of  a  millennium.  Rael's  heart  burned  as  he  looked  at  her,  and 
felt  the  woman-element,  like  a  torch  bringing  down  a  sacred 
fire,  touch  the  man's  reason  and  purpose  in  him,  and  kindle  it 
into  an  enthusiasm. 

"  It  must  be  so  ;  it  must  be  coming,"  he  said.  "  Look  at 
these  hills  —  these  miles  and  miles  of  beautiful  lands.  These  are 
the  great  places,  the  rich  places,  —  not  the  walled-in  streets  of 
cities.  And  the  want  of  the  cities  ought  to  be  here  ;  they  ought  to 
'sit  every  man  under  his  own  vine  and  under  his  own  fig-tree.'  It 
is  too  late,  as  I  said  about  Betsey  Bushell,  to  get  that  present 
want  all  out  into  the  right  place,  maybe ;  but  can't  somebody 
help  keep  it  out  for  the  times  to  come  1  Is  n't  there  some 
thing  for  men  to  stay  and  do  up  here?  Shall  I  go,  or  stay,  Miss 
France,  when  the  chance  comes1?" 


CROWNED    HEAD.  305 

France  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  not  amusement,  it  was  just 
the  uttered  brightness  of  her  smile.  "  I  know  what  you  will 
do,"  she  said.  "  You  will  stay." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered  her.     "  I  wanted  your  word." 

As  if  it  had  been  her  word  at  all !  As  if  she  had  done  any  of 
the  reasoning,  or  had  persuaded  him  !  It  was  curious  consult 
ing  ;  it  was  only  "as  face  answereth  to  face  in  the  water,"  that 
there  had  been  any  answering  from  her  to  him.  These  two 
understood  each  other,  after  all. 

France's  heart  beat  to  think  of  that.  That  these  summer 
weeks,  begun  with  such  far-offness,  such  setting  apart,  had  done 
it  all.  He  had  brought  her  out  here  into  this  glory,  the  widest 
he  could  show  her ;  and  here  he  had  shown  her,  also,  the  glory 
of  his  heart. 

Nothing  more.  He  had  not  brought  her  here  to  say  any 
common,  selfish  words  to  her,  that  it  was  not  time  to  say ;  to 
repeat,  in  any  wise,  what  had  burst  from  him  in  that  moment 
that  was  almost  like  a  moment  beyond  the  grave.  He  had 
promised  not  to  do  that  when  he  had  said  to  her,  "  Will  you. 
go?" 

It  was  curious  wooing.  Not  a  word  to  try  her  mind,  to  draw 
a  word  or  look  from  her  to  show  whether  she  could  choose  the 
living  he  was  choosing  —  choose  it  anyhow  —  in  some  pleasant 
imagination  even.  Not  a  word  to  make  her  say  that  she,  a 
woman,  couid  delight  in  woman's  service  here,  where  such 
work  was  to  be  done  to  "  establish  the  mountain  of  the  Lord  in 
the  top  of  the  mountains,"  and  to  make  the  "  people  flow  unto 
it."  It  was  all  man's  work,  man's  choice,  that  he  talked 
about ;  where  he  himself  should  set  himself  "  between." 

It  was  curious  wooing ;  yet  France  Everidge  felt  herself,  in 
some  high  way,  both  sought  and  chosen.  No  other  woman 
would  he  have  sought  just  so.  She  was  his  friend,  whatever 
came  of  it.  He  left  it,  as  she  left  it,  to  some  sure  Ordering  to 
bring  whatever  should  be,  by  the  ordering  of  "  the  steps."  And 
this  step  was  one. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  Rael  said  presently,  "  that  Mr.  Kings- 
worth  has  in  mind,  and  all  planned  out.  He  sees  how  the 
distances  in  these  country  places  are  against  the  helps  and  im- 

20 


306  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

provements  that  might  be,  and  how  that  makes  the  difference 
from  town  and  city  living,  where  things  and  people  are  brought 
continually  together.  He  means  that  there  shall  be  a  circu 
lating  library  here  in  Fellaiden  at  any  rate ;  and  that  it  shall 
circulate.  It  can't  be  left  to  the  chance  getting  of  books  by 
people  who  don't  drive  once  a  month  —  and  some  who  never 
have  any  way  of  driving  at  all  —  to  any  centre  where  the  books 
could  be  kept.  He  means  to  get  up  a  book-post,  to  go  round 
once  a  fortnight  and  exchange  the  volumes.  People  can  make 
out  their  lists  of  whatever  they  want  to  read,  and  these  can  be 
kept  at  the  library,  the  numbers  crossed  off  as  they  are  supplied. 
Everybody  is  to  help,  according  to  ability ;  then  he  will  see  that 
the  deficiency  is  made  up.  Is  n't  that  good  ? " 

"  It 's  beautiful,"  said  France,  in  a  quiet  tone.  She  felt  hum 
bled  before  the  great  goodness  of  it,  and  of  the  man  whose  whole 
heart  and  life  were  just  full  and  outgoing  with  only  such  thought 
and  deed  for  "  the  neighbor."  She  had  dared,  —  no,  it  was 
not  that  she  had  dared  to  refuse ;  she  had  rather  not  dared  to 
take  to  herself  the  dearest  human  giving  of  such  a  heart  and 
life.  It  simply  was  not  hers  ;  he  would  know  it  some  time.  The 
great  Ordering  that  would  take  care  of  hers  would  take  care  of 
his  also.  She  felt  sure  he  should  not  lose.  For  herself,  she 
was  so  happy  to  sit  below  and  wait  —  with  Rael. 

"  Then  there  are  the  schools,  and  the  social  gatherings,  that 
must  be,  somehow ;  he  has  them  all  in  mind.  And  he  needs 
people  who  will  take  things  up  with  him,  and  help  him  carry 
them  through.  I  believe  I  am  right  in  making  up  my  mind  to 
be  one." 

"  You  will  be  the  one,"  said  France. 

Not  a  word  to  her,  even  then,  of  what  he  could  dream  to  do, 
with  the  one  for  himself  at  his  side  in  this  brave  paradise. 
Would  the  word  ever  be  said  1  The  days  were  growing  short ; 
their  lines  were  going  to  separate  :  how  would  it  ever  be  1 

They  went  down  the  mountain.  They  kept  southward  down 
the  long  ridge,  until  they  entered  the  road  they  had  first  taken 
from  the  highway  in  their  ascent ;  they  repassed  in  this  the 
wretched  lair  of  Betsey  Bushell ;  a  little  way  beyond  they  left 
the  more  direct  way,  and  turned  again  southward,  along  the 


CROWNED   HEAD.  307 

continued  broken  line  of  the  Back  Hill,  descending  for  two 
or  three  miles  the  slowly  lowering  grade. 

The  sun,  also,  was  going  down  his  evening  mountain  path. 
On  their  right  hand,  all  the  west  —  hilltops  and  heaven  —  was 
full  of  changing  lights  and  colors.  The  dusk  and  chill  came  on 
when  a  low  bank  of  gray  vapor  hid  for  a  while  the  sinking  splen 
dor.  All  at  once,  the  rays  streamed  forth  again  ;  they  looked 
round,  to  see  one  of  those  strange,  new  pictures,  of  which  in  a 
lifetime  we  see,  if  we  watch,  so  many,  and  yet  in  all  never  the 
same  one  twice. 

Fallen  from  under  the  deep  purple  cloud-bank,  and  clinging, 
like  a  fiery  burr,  to  the  long,  black  edge  of  a  mountain-side, 
hung  the  sun  ;  crimson  light  burst  upward,  fan-like,  into  the 
mist  of  the  cloud,  setting  it  all  ablaze  ;  its  left  shoot  ran  up 
the  slope  of  the  mountain,  and  projected  itself  far  beyond  the 
crest,  dividing  sharply  the  wonderful  light  from  the  darkness, 
away  up,  up,  in  the  dense  mass  of  vapors ;  the  heart  of  the  con 
flagration  burning  and  burning,  till  it  was  a  pure,  intense  clear 
ness  ;  the  mists  turning  ever  a  richer  and  more  vivid  red  ;  the 
sun  still  clinging,  as  if  caught  in  the  bristle  of  the  piny  moun 
tain-side.  At  last  it  dropped,  —  slid  downward  and  backward 
over  the  lessening  spur,  till  it  went  out  behind  the  next  rising 
outline,  as  if  it  had  rolled  along,  not  under,  the  world. 

"Did  anybody  ever  see  such  a  sunset1?"  exclaimed  France. 

"  No,"  Rael  answered.  "  And  perhaps  only  we  two,  in  all  this 
region  where  it  might  be  seen,  have  seen  it,  just  this  way, 
now." 

Only  they  two.  At  the  moment  when  he  said  it,  that  clear, 
whistling  cadence  uttered  itself  from  the  woods  close  by,  —  A- 
world-for-me  !  A-.world-for-thee  !  They  rode  on  silently,  listen 
ing  to  the  whip-poor-will. 

Another  grave  of  a  house,  low  down  in  a  bend  of  brook- 
meadow  ;  a  high  hill-rampart,  dark  with  forests,  shutting  it  in 
behind ;  lesser  hills  and  rises  clustering  all  about,  through 
which  wound  the  narrow  roadway  that  had  brought  them  be 
side  it. 

There,  Rael  told  France,  was  where  a  father  and  daughter, 
living  by  themselves  years  and  years  ago,  had  been  struck  by 


308  ODD,   OB   EVEN  '? 

one  bolt  of  lightning ;  their  untended  cows  had  broken  from 
their  pasture  days  after,  and  wandered  wildly  away  ;  distant 
farm-people  had  found  the  cattle,  and  then  come  to  the  house 
and  found  the  lifeless  inmates,  —  one  at  one  window,  the  other 
at  another,  where  they  had  been  closing  them  against  the  storm, 
when  the  arrow  of  heaven  had  shot  through,  and  left  them  dead 
in  the  selfsame  instant.  There  was  something  dread  in  this 
chill,  solitary,  deep-shadowed  place  ;  there  was  a  strange  shud- 
dej  in  the  air ;  the  presentiment  of  death  that  must  come  had 
waited  here  with  the  night-time  at  the  mountain-foot,  after  all 
the  joy  and  beauty  of  their  dayshiny  pilgrimage.  It  was  min 
utes  before  France  could  quite  draw  natural  breath  again,  from 
that  sudden  awe  of  the  happening  of  "years  and  years  ago." 

Then  she  said,  "  What  histories  of  one  old  mountain  you  have 
told  me  to-day  !  " 

"And  how  much  older  and  full  of  history  is  the  mountain  !" 
answered  Rael. 

"  And  what  atoms  we  are  in  the  whole  earth,  and  the  story  of 
it !  "  France  said  again. 

"  Yet  we  are  here,  and  there  is  a  way  for  us  in  it ;  because 
—  don't  you  remember,  don't  you  think  so,  France  1  —  because 
the  Lord  is  the  Lord  of  hosts." 

How,  in  such  a  sentence,  could  he  put  the  little  word  of  hu 
man  distinction  ? 

"  That  is  so  much  easier  a  way  to  think  it,"  France  answered 
low,  "than  to  have  first  to  think  one's  self  up  out  of  the  hosts." 

"People  waste  their  strength,  trying  to  believe  in  them 
selves,"  said  Rael. 

They  went  down  a  steep,  scrambly,  hazardous  side-track 
from  the  ridge  into  the  village  road.  It  was  dark  here  now. 
But  France  was  not  afraid  :  the  chill  and  the  shudder  had 
passed ;  they  two,  in  the  glory  and  in  the  dread,  had  been,  and 
were  still,  together.  There  was  a  way  for  them  in  the  earth, 
because  the  Lord  was  the  Lord  of  hosts. 

For  the  first  time,  she  had  heard  Israel  speak  that  Holy 
Name ;  and  for  the  first  time,  as  in  that  very  name,  he  had 
spoken  her*  own,  in  the  way  that  friend  may  call  a  friend. 

As  they  went  up  Fellaiden  Hill,  from  the  north,  the  side  of 


CROWNED    HEAD.  309 

the  Centre  Village,  and  came  out  upon  the  broad  table  of  the 
summit,  they  rose  up  into  the  soft  twilight  again,  that  had  been 
quenched  quite  out  in  the  low  woods.  Along  the  street,  wide 
here,  on  the  high  level,  and  grassed  at  each  side  with  a  smooth 
turf  for  many  yards,  they  met  people  coming  home  from  their 
day's  work  or  absence.  A  long  timber-wagon,  emptied  of  some 
load  it  had  transported,  turned  out  for  them.  The  saw-mills 
were  a  mile  back,  down  in  the  gorge.  Rael  stopped,  and  called 
to  the  man  who  was  walking  beside  his  horses. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Osterley.  I  was  wanting  to  see  you, 
about  some  lumber  stuff.  What  can  you  let  me  have  shaved 
cedar  shingles  for,  the  thousand  1 " 

Mr.  Osterley  took  off  his  hat  with  his  left  hand,  passed  his 
cart-whip  over  into  the  same,  and  with  his  right  hand  rubbed 
his  right  ear  between  thumb  and  finger.  He  looked  down  upon 
the  ground,  as  if  he  kept  some  calculation  hidden  in  the  earth, 
and  were  consulting  it.  "  How  many  d'  y'  want  1 "  he  asked 
lifting  head  and  eyes  suddenly. 

"  Whether  I  want  them  at  all  will  depend  upon  the  price," 
said  Rael,  "  perhaps  five  thousand." 

"Well,  I  've  got  some, — good.  I'll  let  y'  have  'em  f'r 
three  dullars  an'  a  quarter." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  any,"  answered  Rael,  with  perfect  pleas 
antness.  "  Good  evening,  Mr.  Osterley."  And  he  gave  the 
colt  the  hint  with  the  reins,  and  the  light  buckboard  rolled  off 
along  the  soft,  soundless  road.  Mr.  Osterley  was  left  standing 
with  his  ear  in  one  hand  and  his  hat  and  whip  in  the  other, 
forgetting  all  three.  He  had  posed  himself,  bodily  and  men 
tally,  for  a  long  Yankee  haggle.  He  expected,  in  the  end,  to 
sell  his  shaved  cedars  for  about  two-seventy-five,  twenty-five 
cents,  at  that,  more  than  they  were  absolutely  worth  ;  and  that 
Israel  Hey  brook  would  talk  him  leisurely  down  the  extra  fifty. 
He  thought  there  would  be  just  about  time,  between  daylight 
and  dark  for  that-  And  half  the  pleasure  of  selling  anything, 
to  Mr.  Osterley  and  hundreds  of  his  kind,  is  the  slow  approach 
to  the  bargain.  But  here  was  Israel  Heybrook,  off  at  the  first 
jump. 

"  That  is  one  thing,"  Rael  said  to  France,  as  they  drove  for- 


310  ODD,    OB   EVEN  ? 

ward,  "  that  somebody  has  got  to  begin  to  put  right.  I  mean 
there  shall  be  one  man  in  Fellaiden  who  everybody  shall  know 
will  name  his  own  fair  price,  —  I  don't  say  lowest,  because 
there  ought  n't  to  be  a  higher  than  the  right,  —  at  the  first  word, 
and  who  won't  pay  hours  and  minutes,  as  well  as  dollars  and 
cents,  when  he  wants  to  buy.  That  man  would  have  been  glad 
to  get  two-sixty  for  his  shingles.  But  I  won't  chaffer.  It 's 
like  tittle-tattle  or  a  quarrel.  Somebody  's  got  to  stop  short, 
or  there  's  no  end  to  it." 

France  thought  of  the  "  custom  that  was  the  law  of  life." 

"  But  won't  you  have  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  all  the  people 
who  have  lumber  to  sell,"  she  asked,  "  and  come  off,  at  last, 
without  your  shingles  1 " 

"  Maybe,  for  once.  In  that  case,  I  'd  put  off  my  shingling  job, 
and  consider  I  'd  done  better.  If  I  begin  young,  I  may  come 
to  be  understood.  Where  I  know  what  I  can  give  or  take,  I 
won't  ask  or  offer  twice." 

There  was  an  inflexibility  about  Israel  Heybrook,  that  it 
would  be  hazardous  to  run  against. 

France  was  set  thinking  things  of  him,  silently,  by  those 
words.  And  she  remembered  them  many  times  long  after. 

Miss  Ammah  was  on  the  west  piazza  when  they  reached 
home.  Mr.  Kingsworth  was  with  her.  He  had  come  up  this 
day  from  Boston,  and  had  stopped  hj?re,  on  his  way  over  from 
the  village,  with  their  letters,  just  as  usual. 

He  met  France  with  the  smile  that  was  always  his  first 
bright  encounter  with  his  friends  ;  it  was  as  unhindered  to-day 
as  it  had  been  that  first  day  when  he  had  found  her  here. 

Was  that  strange,  did  she  think1?  Bernard  Kingsworth  was 
only  "  acting  out,"  in  this  also,  "  his  word," —  the  word  that  was 
a  living  thing  in  him ;  not,  even  to  himself,  a  pretence.  Did 
she  suppose  he  had  been  afraid  for  "  the  hairs  of  his  head,"  all 
these  weeks'?  that  he  had  hidden  himself,  in  that  mere  coward 
liness  1 

There  had  been  time  for  Miss  Ammah  to  tell  him  that  France 
had  gone  away  this  afternoon  with  Rael,  to  Crowned  Head. 
There  had  been  time  for  whatever  question  or  thought  of  possi 
bility  might  have  come  with  this.  Even  yet,  it  had  not  driven 
him  away  or  made  him  afraid. 


CROWNED   HEAD.  311 

Had  not  "  the  Lord's  wish  been  in  the  midst  of  his  wish  "  ? 

Yes,  in  the  very  heart  of  it,  he  knew ;  that  which  himself, 
even,  had  not  penetrated  to.  Not  in  the  outside  way  of  it,  yet ; 
perhaps  it  would  never  be.  But  the  live  depth  of  it  was  kept 
safe,  somehow ;  he  never  doubted  that ;  for  he  had  heard  and 
had  taken  to  himself  the  word,  "Your  heart  shall  live  for 
ever." 

Is  it  strange  to  you,  who  read,  as  it  may  have  been  to 
France  1  Is  this  an  anomalous,  impossible  man  I  tell  you  ofl 
I  only  tell  you  of  one  in  whom  was  the  grain,  as  a  grain  of  mus 
tard-seed  ;  and  to  such  there  is  no  mountain  that  cannot  be 
lifted  off,  that  the  grain  may  grow  up,  strong  and  beautiful, 
into  the  light. 

Whether  it  be  believed  or  not,  I  think  it  was  truly  more 
Bernard  Kingsworth's  desire  that  the  right  thing  should  be,  than 
that  anything  should  come  to  pass  in  his  own  way  or  choosing. 
I  think  if  there  were  an  act  of  his  —  a  staying  or  a  going  — 
that  could  have  helped,  or  shunned  to  hinder,  aught  that  might 
be  coming,  right  across  his  own  first  seeking,  to  these  other  two, 
he  would  have  gone  upon  its  errand  for  them,  or  have  stayed 
to  smile  as  he  had  done  to-day. 

Yet  his  feet  might  no  less  have  felt  the  stones  as  he  went ; 
the  pain,  for  long  yet,  might  be  no  less  under  the  smile. 

Miss  Ammah  had  business  letters,  and  she  resolved  to-night 
that  she  would  go  down  next  week.  She  might  return  to  at 
tend  to  her  new  business  here ;  but  the  thing  in  natural  order 
was  that  she  should  go  to  Boston  now.  And  the  natural  order 
was  that  France  should  go  down  with  her. 

Miss  Ammah  Tredgold,  also,  did  the  right  and  obvious  thing, 
and  believed  in  the  appointing  of  the  order. 

There  was  only  one  especial  word  between  France  and  Israel, 
the  day  that  they  said  good-by, 

"  If  I  could  only  take  a  little  bit  of  Fellaiden  down  there 
with  me  ! "  the  girl  had  exclaimed,  looking  out  on  the  morning 
among  the  hills  for  the  last  time. 

"  There  is  a  little  bit  of  Fellaiden  gone  down  there  before  you," 
Rael  answered.  "I  wish  you  would  look  after  Philip  Merri- 
weather  in  any  kind  way  you  can.  He  is  a  fellow  who  will  go 


312  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

with  all  his  might  for  what  seems  to  himself  the  best  thing. 
And  there  are  so  many  different  bests,  you  know." 

"  I  know,"  said  France,  looking  up  in  that  brave,  good  face. 
"  And  I  will  try." 

She  felt  as  if  he  had  shared  something  of  his  best,  most  gen 
erous  self,  with  her,  in  telling  her  a  thing  like  this  to  do. 

It  was  taking  her  friendship,  her  perfect  understanding,  her 
sameness  of  feeling,  for  granted,  just  as  she  would  have  him 
take  them. 

Was  there  anything  just  a  little  too  settled,  and  of  course  1 
Was  there  anything  that  had  been  passed  by,  given  up,  perhaps, 
on  the  ordinary  road  to  such  a  sameness  and  understanding  1 

These  questions  might  be  coming  to  her  by  and  by,  when 
she  should  have  plenty  of  time  to  be  looking  back,  and  think 
ing  all  these  things  over. 


SAFEGUARDS.  313 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SAFEGUARDS. 

THE  three  Miss  Pyes  had  each  a  timidity.  It  was  inconvenient 
that  there  should  have  been  these  three  individual  forms  to  the 
family  nervousness.  If  there  had  been  but  one,  the  family  life 
could  have  been  more  easily  and  less  restrictedly  shaped  in  ac 
cordance.  As  it  was,  they  maintained,  in  certain  quite  unusual 
and  laborious  ways,  a  perpetual  triple  system  of  fortified,  fire- 
precautionary,  and  meteorological  defences.  You  will  infer  that 
the  three  terrors  were  of  burglary,  conflagration,  and  tempest. 

Miss  Charity,  in  opposition  to  the  spirit  of  her  christening, 
looked  upon  mankind  as  a  race  of  thieves,  upon  the  gentle  peace 
and  shadow  of  night-time  as  a  misguided  ordination  of  Provi 
dence,  which  simply  sheltered  the  infernal  side  of  human  pro 
pensity  and  procedure.  She  slept  with  a  revolver  between  her 
pillows,  but  not  the  pillows  that  were  under  her  head.  It  was 
a  case  constructed  expressly  for  the  safe  keeping  of  the  weapon, 
of  which  she  stood  only  in  less  dread  than  of  the  robbers.  It 
was,  in  fact,  two  pillows,  stoutly  stuffed,  sewed  together  at  the 
sides,  and  shrouded  in  one  round  cover  like  a  muff.  The  muff 
stood  upright  at  her  bed-head,  the  pistol  was  thrust  in  at  the 
the  upper  end,  the  muzzle  of  the  fire-arm  pointed  downward 
through  the  floor.  Nobody  could  be  hit  by  it,  should  the  ball 
go  off  in  that  position,  and  pass  unspent  through  board  and 
plaster,  unless  such  person,  neither  rationally  nor  rightly  posed 
or  disposed,  were  standing  precisely  on  the  top  of  the  Stewart 
stove  in  the  hall-alcove  below. 

Miss  Charity  had  also  invented  an  alarm  of  her  own,  in  the 
connection,  by  certain  wires  which  crossed  various  probable 
points  of  a  predatory  passage,  —  such  as  the  china-and-silver- 
closet  door,  the  heads  and  foots  of  staircases,  etc.,  —  with 


314  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

another  equally  ingenious  adaptation  of  the  hot-air  passages  of 
a  disused  furnace,  which  communicated  through  floors  and 
partition  walls  with  each  story  of  the  dwelling. 

The  Pyes  abjured  furnaces.  The  late  Captain  Pye  had  re 
sisted  them,  and  inculcated  the  principle  of  resistance  in  his 
family.  They  ate  up  the  air;  they  were  sure  to  burn  the 
house  down,  which  fell  in  with  Miss  Bab's  particular  horror; 
and  they  needed  the  further  provision  of  a  coal-mine  in  profit 
able  operation  under  the  cellar-floor,  to  keep  them  in  blast.  So 
Miss  Pye  had  utilized  two  or  three  of  the  flues  in  this  manner  : 
she  had  had  the  pipes  refitted,  and  caused  light  wire  nettings  to 
be  arranged  within  and  across  the  register-mouths,  held  by  a  hinge 
on  one  side,  and  a  loose  pin  upon  the  other.  Upon  every  one 
of  these  she  kept  piled  a  small  cairn  of  old  croquet  balls,  col 
lected  from  her  friends,  though  not  to  the  same  extent,  as  some 
people  collect  postage-stamps.  The  wires,  latched  invisibly 
across  door  or  stairway,  and  carried,  after  the  manner  of  bell- 
hanging,  to  the  pin  heads,  let  fall,  if  run  against,  the  nettings; 
consequently,  a  shattering  avalanche,  that  crashed  down  with 
awful  and  enveloping  sound,  as  if  the  moment's  mean  little 
iniquity  had  been  the  last  exceeding  touch  that  overpoised  the 
equilibrium  of  the  universe,  and  the  wreck  of  matter  had  be 
gun.  If  you  ever  dropped  a  thimble  or  a  penny  down  a  register- 
pipe,  you  can  estimate  what  would  be  the  multiplication  of  the 
marvellous  reverberation  by  the  force  and  spherical  quantity  of 
a  dozen  or  two  hardwood  balls  bounding  and  plunging  along 
the  ringing  tunnels  from  either  or  both  upper  floors  to  the  cel 
lar.  If  it  did  n't  drive  the  interlopers  out  in  disorder,  where 
the  six  barrels  could  finish  them  comfortably,  they  must  be  less 
susceptible  to  quakings  than  brave  Mother  Earth  herself.  As, 
however,  there  were  also  precautions  in  the  way  of  iron  lattices 
or  bolted  inner  shutters  to  all  the  lower  windows,  and  a  kind 
of  toll-bar  against  every  inward-opening  door,  which  was  lifted 
nightly  into  sockets  across  it,  there  had  been,  in  fifteen  years, 
but  two  occasions  when  this  local  convulsion  had  startled  the 
household.  One,  when  Miss  Mag,  indifferent  to  fire  or  thieves, 
but  quick  to  the  first  mutter  of  distant  thunder  or  a  roar  of 
wind  in  the  chimney,  had  been  waked  by  a  flash  of  April  light- 


SAFEGUARDS.  315 

ning,  and  set  off  impetuously  to  fetch  her  silken  thunder-robe 
from  a  far  closet  across  a  bit  of  landing  to  which  an  up  and  a 
down  half  flight  of  stairway  led ;  and  it  had  been  a  mere  mercy, 
through  a  desperate  clutch  at  the  baluster,  that  she,  as  well  as 
the  balls,  had  not  gone  from  the  top  of  the  house  to  the  bot 
tom  unnoticed  in  the  general  crash.  The  other,  when  Miss 
Barbara,  reckless  of  tempest  or  trespassers,  but  sniffing  con 
tinually  remote  and  impossible  odors  of  burning,  had  gone 
forth,  in  a  like  midnight  manner,  upon  a  smelling  quest.  But  as 
Miss  Barbara  moved  heavily  and  slowly,  —  without  a  light  to 
the  surer  discovery  of  smouldering  sparks,  and  fending  before 
her  with  her  bent  arm,  —  she  had  simply  sprung  the  trap,  and 
sat  down,  safe  and  confounded,  upon  the  landing  floor. 

Miss  Barbara  kept  matches  in  a  stone  jar,  with  a  heavy  top, 
in  a  locked  cupboard.  She  dealt  them  out,  broken  carefully 
single,  three  nightly,  to  kitchen  and  each  bedroom,  in  covered 
tin  boxes,  —  requiring  of  everybody,  from  guest  to  servant,  that 
the  burned  ones  should  be  replaced  in  the  same  ;  and  every 
morning  she  investigated  and  counted  up.  She  interfered  se 
riously  with  Miss  Chat,  who  was  equally  anxious  to  reconnoitre 
her  wire  lines  the  last  thing,  by  insisting  on  creeping  about  to 
have  the  last  sniff  and  peep  herself  wherever  a  light  had  been. 
She  kept  a  row  of  her  father's  old  ship-buckets  in  either  hall 
and  across  the  kitchen,  painted  a  flame-red,  that  might  of  itself 
have  given  a  sudden  panic  to  unaccustomed  eyes ;  and  she  had 
a  big  bell  hung  in  what  the  captain  had  called  the  "  cupelow." 
Miss  Mag  had  rebelled  against  this,  as  destroying  with  its  ugly 
bulk  and  trailing  rope  the  prettiness,  and  almost  the  availa 
bility  as  a  resort,  of  the  nice  little  octagon  belvidere,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  danger  of  its  diverting  an  entire  bolt  of  light 
ning  away  from  the  rods  right  into  the  house  ;  but  as  an  aux 
iliary  to  the  other  uproar  in  case  of  an  invasion,  it  carried  the 
vote  by  two  to  one,  and  was  established. 

Miss  Mag,  on  her  part,  gradually  instituted  these  things  : 
her  thunder-gown  of  black  silk  with  a  large  hood,  that  would 
envelop  her  whole  person ;  a  most  bristling  and  elaborate 
system,  of  conductors  upon  the  house,  superintended  in  their 
erection  by  herself,  with  a  scientific  treatise  on  thunder-storms 


316  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

in  her  hand,  and  a  professed  practical  electrician  at  her  elbow, 
the  rods  carried  out  like  iron  roots  in  every  direction  under 
ground  from  the  building,  terminating  in  cistern,  well,  and 
drains ;  an  arched  cellar-chamber,  cleared  of  barrels  and  old 
iron,  for  retreat  in  tornadoes ;  and  a  couple  of  supernumerary 
feather-beds,  stowed  with  intent  and  foresight  in  a  closet,  where 
Miss  Mag  had  actually  been  known  to  betake  herself  in  a  hot 
summer  night,  and  plant  herself,  as  Miss  Charity  did  the  pistol, 
only  with  muzzle  uppermost,  to  bide  and  breathe  as  she  might 
until  a  heavy  shower  had  passed. 

The  three  ladies  had  lived  without  male  protection  ever  since 
their  father's  death.  Now  and  then,  Miss  Charity,  the  only  one 
apprehensive  in  a  direction  in  which  masculine  support  could 
be  supposed  of  much  avail,  had  mooted  the  desirability  of 
adding  to  their  establishment  in  some  relation,  either  of  friend 
or  servant,  one  of  the  class  that,  according  to  her  anthropology, 
consisted  of  but  two  orders,  —  rascals  or  complimentarily  or 
dained  catchers  of  rascals.  But  the  uncertainty  lest  she  might 
stumble  upon  the  wrong  natural  division,  added  to  the  remon 
strance  of  Miss  Barbara,  who  knew  he  would  be  smoking  in  his 
bedroom  and  carrying  matches  by  the  gross  in  his  pockets  and 
leaving  candles  burning  in  a  draught  with  the  curtains  blowing 
in,  and  to  Miss  Mag's  objection  that  some  of  them  were  still 
young  enough  for  a  friend  to  seem  questionable,  and  a  servant 
would  be  a  perfect  fifth  wheel  in  the  daytime,  and  never  wake 
up  if  he  was  wanted  in  the  night,  had  kept  the  idea  chaotic. 

This  very  early  autumn,  however,  of  which  I  am  writing,  an 
occurrence  befell  which  brought  it  out  of  the  vagueness  of  sug 
gestion  into  the  force  of  direct  and  pressing  question. 

One  lovely  September  night,  fair  with  stars  and  a  low  moon 
in  the  west,  when  the  lights  in  the  house  had  been  extinguished, 
and  the  three  ladies  and  their  serving-woman,  whose  early  habits 
were  well  known,  had  been  for  some  three  hours  sleeping  be 
hind  their  bars  and  hurdles  in  the  usual  quiet,  the  thing  hap 
pened  which  might  have  left  Miss  Charity  with  a  sense  of 
•wasted  life  and  capacity  if  it  never  had  happened.  Their  house 
was  entered. 

Entered  in  the  meanest  underground  way,  through  a  cellar 


SAFEGUARDS.  317 

hatchway,  where  a  load  of  wood  had  been  thrown  in  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  the  covers  closed  down  upon  it,  so  that  access 
from  below,  to  draw  the  bolts,  had  been  impossible.  When 
Miss  Charity  asked  her  servant,  as  usual,  if  the  bolting  had  been 
done,  the  girl  had  answered,  "  No  'm.  But  no  created  creechur 
could  get  in  through  them  three  cords  of  wood.  And  the  stair 
way-door  is  both  locked  and  hooked  and  wired  and  tabled."  So 
they  went  to  bed  in  peace. 

By  midnight,  full  one  cord  of  that  wood  lay  carefully  strewn 
upon  the  soft  outside  grass;  a  pathway  downward  had  been 
made,  and  the  hatchway  doors  folded  back,  and  "  left" — as  Miss 
Pye  observed,  as  if  the  care  of  fastening  up  after  himself  might 
be  expected  from  a  sneak  thief, —  in  such  a  breadth  of  invita 
tion  that  "  there  might  have  been  a  steady  stream  of  them 
pouring  in  afterwards  till  daylight."  This  statement,  however, 
anticipates  the  after-investigation. 

It  was  about  quarter  past  twelve,  when  Miss  Charity  first 
thought  she  detected  a  faint,  indefinite  disturbance,  and  rising, 
began  her  familiar,  tiptoe,  hearkening  round,  in  the  safety  of 
her  own  chamber,  from  door  to  door,  and  window  to  window. 
She  could  see  nothing,  for  her  room  was  not  on  the  hatchway 
side ;  but  her  sensitive,  long-trained  organs  discerned,  among 
the  throbbing  silences  of  the  night,  a  motion, —  dead  footfalls, 
somewhere,  upon  dead  ground.  Every  perception  in  her  was 
alive  to  a  kind  of  odylic  consciousness,  in  which  she  would  have 
had  a  sense  of  a  night-bird's  shoot  through  the  air  or  a  field 
mouse's  rustle  through  a  grass-patch.  She  was  sure  she  had 
been  aware  of  that  muffled  stir,  that  vibration  of  some  live 
doing,  in  the  house  away  beneath.  She  felt,  now,  rather 
than  heard,  that  some  one  —  some  thing — was  going,  carefully 
and  weightily,  along  upon  the  ground  outside,  within  the 
premises.  There  was  a  smothered  rumble.  If  it  had  been 
Mag  that  heard  it,  it  would  have  whispered  to  her,  unmistaka 
bly,  "  Earthquake  ! "  But  earthquake  was  not  in  Miss  Char 
ity's  department,  only  the  still,  small  human  sound.  She 
put  on  her  gray  flannel  gown, —  her  feet  were  already  in  her 
bedside  slippers, —  drew  with  much  distant  caution  her  pistol 
from  its  feather  holster,  opened  the  door  into  the  east  passage, 


318  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

and  crossed  it  to  Miss  Barbara's  room.  Bab  never  locked  her 
door,  lest,  as  in  a  story  she  had  read,  the  key  should  drop  out 
of  the  key-hole  with  her  agitation  in  case  of  fire,  and  she 
should  be  left  groping  for  it  on  the  carpet  while  the  hot  smoke 
should  rush  in  and  suffocate  her. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  Miss  Barbara,  from  under  the  bedclothes ; 
and  twisted  herself  over  with  indignant  determination  to 
sleep  on. 

"  There  's  somebody  here  ! "  Miss  Charity  enunciated  in  a 
slow,  awful  wh'cl>er,  and  with  a  tone  like  the  announcing  of 
disbelieved  doom1  to  a  sceptic. 

"Five -hundred -and -forty -ninth  time,"  as  slowly  rejoined 
Miss  Barbara,  in  a  monotone,  through  lips  that  evidently  re 
fused  to  more  than  part,  lest  their  motion  should  arouse  other 
bodily  activities. 

"  There  've  been  five  hundred  and  forty-nine  wheelbarrows, 
then,  with  five  hundred  and  forty-nine  tubs  of  butter  and  hams 
and  salt  fishes  and  beef  roasts,  and  whatever  else  was  down 
in  the  refrigerator  room, —  and  men  wheeling  them  straight 
along  from  the  cellar  corner  to  the  front  wall,"  retorted  Miss 
Chat,  more  rapidly,  but  in  the  sublime  calmness  of  the  realized 
worst  that  had  long  been  looked  for, — *'  for  that 's  what  I  see 
this  identical  minute,  from  this  window,  and  am  —  going  —  to 
fire  at ! " 

But  to  fire  she  had  to  raise  the  window,  at  which  sound  the 
man  dropped  his  wheelbarrow  handles  and  flung  himself  in 
stantly  behind  a  huge,  low-spreading  Norway  spruce,  where  he 
lay  flat  upon  the  ground.  Miss  Charity,  with  the  utmost 
method,  but  with  averted  head,  stretched  forth  her  weapon, 
fired,  and  cocked  and  fired  again;  one, —  click, — •  two, —  click, 
—  and  so  on,  six  several  times,  at  nothing  in  particular. 

At  the  end  of  the  exercise,  the  marauder  —  five  hundred  and 
forty-ninth  of  imagination  and  first  of  reality  —  stepped 
serenely  forth  into  the  soft,  clear  light,  resumed  his  wheeling, 
arid  cut  boldly  across  the  gravel-sweep  before  the  assembled 
faces  —  for  four  women  were  looking  out  now,  over  each  other's 
heads  —  to  the  regular  entrance,  and  thence  down  the  shaded 
streetway  below  the  heavy  hedge.  A  few  paces  off,  they  heard 


SAFEGUARDS.  319 

the  load  hastily  tumbled  into  a  wagon,  and  this  driven  reck 
lessly  down  hill  and  away. 

The  nearest  neighbors,  a  furlong  or  more  off  the  other  side, 
alarmed  by  the  shots,  hurried,  on  foot,  with  inquiry  and  assist 
ance.  Meanwhile,  the  bell  was  rung  and  the  catapults  were 
discharged.  People  rushed  in,  breathless.  The  three  sisters 
were  in  their  long-premeditated  array  for  night-sally, —  namely, 
three  gray  dressing-gowns  and  three  full-plaited  round  muslin 
caps, —  and  the  servant-maid  in  what  she  could  catch  up,  which 
was  an  afghan  and  a  towel ;  and  a  procession  was  instituted 
around  and  through  the  precincts,  resulting  iv.  the  discovery  of 
the  open  entrance  I  have  described,  the  wheelbarrow  tracks 
across  the  lawn,  the  wheelbarrow  itself,  borrowed  from  the  shed, 
its  wheel  well  greased,  and  left  behind  upon  the  roadside, —  and 
precisely  the  articles  missing  which  Miss  Chat,  with  pi-esence  of 
mind  that  would  pass  into  a  tradition,  had  enumerated. 

The  last  scathe  and  scorch  of  rebuke  had  fallen  upon  Miss 
Barbara  for  her  contemptuous  doubts,  when  she  saw  the  burned 
ends  of  dozens  of  matches  lying  scattered  upon  shelf  and  floor, 
and  on  the  very  wood-pile,  by  whose  light  the  prowling  plun 
derer  had  found  his  way  and  made  research  for  his  spoil. 
From  that  hour,  her  midnight  anxieties  joined  themselves, 
inseparably,  to  those  of  Miss  Charity,  and  went  —  qfensa  et 
defensa  —  hand  in  hand. 

Not  to  make  too  long  an  episode  of  an  occurrence  which  was 
an  epoch  only  in  the  Pye  family,  and  is  of  the  merest  incidental 
consequence  to  our  story,  we  have  only  to  make  the  connecting 
link  by  noting  that  the  horror  was  in  its  early  delicious  retro 
spect,  bringing  in  its  first  returns  of  that  enjoyment  which  was 
to  be  as  a  life  annuity  now,  for  which  the  sum  of  one  night's 
agitation  and  loss  had  been  well  paid  in,  when  Miss  Ammah 
and  France  Everidge  came  down  from  Fellaideu ;  and  that  it 
was  in  an  early  call  at  the  Nest  that  Miss  Mag  rehearsed  to 
the  latter,  in  her  most  graphic  style,  what  "Chat  and  Bab 
and  I "  had  endured  and  said  and  done  on  the  occasion.  For 
it  was  to  be  observed  that,  although  it  was  Miss  Chat's  especial 
estate  that  had  come  in,  so  to  speak,  and  the  other  sisters  —  to 
resort  to  slang  —  had  never  taken  stock  in  it, —  these  other  two 


320  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

were  concedingly  ready,  now,  to  help  appropriate  its  dividends 
of  honor;  as,  to  do  them  justice,  they  would,  on  the  other 
hand,  have  shared  nobly  whatever  might  have  fallen  more 
directly  to  their  own  credit  in  the  way  of  burning  up  or  blast 
ing  down. 

"And  so,"  wound  up  Miss  Mag,  "  we  all  say  now, —  Chat  and 
Bab  and  I, —  that  before  the  long  winter  nights  come,  and  we 
lay  in  our  coal  and  our  vegetables,  and  our  kindlings  and  our 
butter,  and  our  apples  and  our  salt  meats,  we  really  must  have 
a  man  in  the  house.  And  because  if  we  had  anybody  of  any 
kind  of  an  age  suitable  to  any  of  ours  it  would  n't  be  suitable 
at  all,  you  know,  we  think  it  had  better  be  a  boy.  At  least, 
not  a  child,—  of  course;  just  more  than  you  could  exactly  call 
a  boy,  but  might  say  a  young  fellow,  that  would  have  come  to 
size  and  strength,  but  not  to  misconstruction.  And  —  well,  Chat, 
perhaps  you'd  better  explain  the  rest." 

"My  sister  means,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Chat,  in  the  clear, 
common-sense  way  that  she  especially  affected  upon  business, 
"  what  we  have  talked  over  among  ourselves  as  to  arrange 
ments.  There  is  n't  anybody  we  would  quite  care  to  invite, 
or  that  would  wish,  probably,  to  be  invited ;  and  it  would  make 
things  more  comfortable  and  independent  on  all  sides,  if  some 
moderate  equivalent  were  taken.  We  have  no  occasion  to  make 
money, —  that  way." 

"  No,"  put  in  Miss  Bab,  who  always  did  put  in  the  key-word 
and  fact,  "  we  only  want  what  will  even  the  accounts.  For 
we  don't  quite  feel  like  extra  spending,  you  see.  The  truth  is, 
we  Ve  locked  up  a  pretty  good  amount  lately,  that  we  shall 
have  to  wait  for  till  it  pays  in ;  and  it  does  n't  leave  us  any 
thing —  this  year — to  spare." 

The  little  grandeur  of  manner  with  which  Miss  Bab  measured 
her  sentence,  and*  left  a  possible  magnificence  of  disclosure  to 
another  year  or  day,  was  lost,  for  the  moment,  on  France, 
whose  mind  shot  instantly  to  that  "  little  piece  of  Fellaiden  " 
she  was  commissioned  and  promised  to  take  kind  thought  for. 
It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Phil  Merriweather, —  a  most  safe 
and  excellent  thing, —  if  from  the  wide  range  and  irresponsibil 
ity  of  the  life  in  the  great  city  upon  which  he  was  just  loosed, 


SAFEGUARDS.  321 

he  could  come  out  here  upon  his  gentlemanhood,  to  take  trust 
and  charge  with  these  good,  simple  ladies.  Miss  Chat's  next 
words  fixed  themselves  to  what  was  in  her  mind,  and  so  brought 
her  mind  to  the  perception  she  had  been  missing. 

"  A  young  man  with  business  in  the  city  would  be  what  we 
should  like,  for  several  reasons.  It  would  be  out  of  the  ques 
tion  having  him  about,  or  in  and  out,  all  day  long,"  she  said. 
"But  a  bright  young  fellow, —  coming  home  at  night  to  bring 
us  the  news,  and  word  of  how  things  were  going ;  and  perhaps 
now  and  then  to  look  into  a  little  matter  for  us,  that  women 
can't  be  on  the  exchange  to  look  after  for  themselves,"  —  here 
Miss  Chat  pushed  up  a  completed  knot,  and  shifted  the  threads 
of  her  macrame,  and  took  an  air  with  her  head  of  that  large, 
reticent  dignity  which  seemed  to  be  just  now  running  through 
the  family, — "  would  exactly  answer  our  idea.  And  if  six  dol 
lars  a  week  would  answer  his, —  with  his  mending  looked  to  a 
little  when  his  things  came  home,  because  I  could  n't  face  my 
conscience  in  putting  a  pile  of  holey  socks  into  a  man's  drawer, 
and  three  of  us  here  of  the  sewing  kind ;  especially  if  he  kept 
that  little  eye  on  the  market  that  we  might  know  better 
whether  to  sell  out  or  hold  on, —  only  for  that  he  must  be  smart 
and  comprehending, — just  any  kind  of  an  image  in  pantaloons 
would  n't  be  worth  while,  you  see  ! "  And  Miss  Chat  concluded 
her  sentence,  quite  unconscious  that  she  had  left  her  premise 
waiting  lamely  far  behind  for  a  forgotten  consequent. 

"  I  think  I  know,  —  it  is  possible,  —  I  might  mention  it.  My 
father  has  a  young  man  of  that  sort  just  come  into  his  employ. 
But,  dear  Miss  Chat,  I  don't  mean  to  ask ;  only  isn't  the  market 
dangerous  for  women  ] " 

"  That 's  \vhat  your  father  says,  I  know,"  returned  Miss 
Chat,  with  superiority  that  had  a  remote,  delicate  flavor  of 
resentment.  "  Men  think  a  good  many  things  are  dangerous 
for  women.  But  there  's  an  old  saying  about  the  goose  and 
the  gander ;  and  maybe  it 's  sometimes  true  turned  round  ! " 

France  could  not  push  inquiry ;  but  she  went  home  with  two 
questions  in  her  mind  to  ask  her  father.  What  he  had  ever 
said  to  Miss  Charity  Pye  about  investments'?  and,  What  sort  of 
a  home,  if  he  knew,  Philip  Merriweather  had  got  in  the  city  1 

21 


322  ODD,   OB   EVEN? 

To  the  first,  —  "  Miss  Pye  had  come  to  him  last  spring  about 
mining  stocks,"  he  said.  "  Somebody  had  put  it  into  her  head 
that  I  was  interested  in  them,  and  that  everybody  was  making 
fortunes  in  them.  But  I  advised  her  out  of  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  1 "  France  asked  with  anxiety.  "  Because 
they  say  they  have  locked  up  money  somewhere,  and  have  n't 
all  they  usually  have  to  spend." 

"  I  gave  her  the  best  of  my  judgment,"  he  answered  hastily. 

France  did  not  say  anything  to  that.  The  thought  that 
arose  in  her  mind  was,  "  Not  the  judgment  you  used  for  your 
self,  papa ! "  But  that  would  be  disrespectful,  and  she  did  not 
say  it. 

"  Women  ought  to  know  when  they  are  well  off!  "Mr.  Ever- 
idge  exclaimed,  with  impatience.  "  They  've  no  business  in 
among  the  wheels  !  Those  girls  had  their  money  all  in  safe  old 
limited  stocks,  and  seven  per  cent  company  mortgages.  If  they 've 
been  risking  in  fancies,  they  '11  just  as  sure  come  out  shorn  —  " 

"  Perhaps  they  have  n't.  I  've  no  right  to  say  so.  Only  they 
spoke,  I  thought,  —  it  was  but  a  few  words,  —  as  if  they  had  in 
convenienced  themselves  just  now,  but  as  if  they  expected  some 
great  thing  of  it,  by  and  by.  What  they  really  talked  about, 
was  having  some  young  man  in  the  house  this  winter,  for 
protection.  And  I  thought  of  Philip  Merriweather.  Where  is 
he  now,  papa  1  Would  n't  it  be  good  for  him  ]  " 

Papa  was  a  little  bit  cross.  He  was  beginning  to  find  his 
neighbor  too  much  for  him. 

"  I  don't  see,  France,  why  you  need  to  trouble  yourself  about 
this  young  man,"  he  said. 

Those  words,  "  young  man,"  were  pronounced  as  they  only 
are  in  giving  a  check  to  a  young  woman.  There  is  nothing 
like  that  kind  of  check  for  putting  a  woman,  young  or  old, 
aside  with  ;  and  all  the  father,  brother,  and  husband-folk  know 
it  right  well.  But  there  is  a  counter-check,  —  the  conscious  or 
unconscious  fact,  concerning  some  one  out-of-the-present-ques- 
tion  person,  which  sets  a  woman  triumphant  and  superior  above 
all  hint  or  mention  of  any  of  the  world's  other  hundreds  of 
millions.  Mr.  Everidge  might  as  well  have  said,  "  I  don't  see, 
France,  that  you  have  any  need  to  trouble  yourself  about  that 


SAFEGUARDS.  323 

pen-rack,"  in  which  at  the  moment,  as  they  sat  by  the  library 
table,  she  was  carefully  rearranging  the  pens  and  pencils  that 
had  been  shaken  from  their  rests  by  the  newspaper  he  had  just 
thrown  by.  France  went  silently  on  with  her  work. 

"  I  like  to  see  things  —  and  people  —  in  proper,  safe  places," 
she  said.  "  And  I  promised  some  of  Phil's  friends  that  I  would 
have  a  thought  for  him.  He  is  a  youth  who  will  take  vehe 
mently  to  whatever  he  thinks  is  best  worth  while ;  and  I  sup 
pose  he  may  be  easily  mistaken  on  that  point." 

As  she  quietly  re-presented  Rael  Heybrook's  word,  when  at 
Rael  Heybrook's  name  she  would  have  had  enough  to  do  to 
take  care  of  her  .self-possession,  she  might  have  been  a  hundred 
grandmothers  for  her  absolute  outgrownness  of  any  girlish  im 
plication  as  to  "young  men." 

1  "  So  you  propose  to  take  him  in  hand  1  Is  that  it  ] "  Mr. 
Everidge  spoke  half  with  his  first  slight  irony,  and  half  with  a 
new  amusement  at  the  tone  the  girl  was  assuming. 

She  answered  with  the  entirest  gravity.  "  Yes,  papa  ;  that 
is  what  I  mean  to  do,  in  a  way,  if  I  can.  Some  of  us  are 
responsible,  I  think,  now  that  he  has  come  down  out  of  that 
simple  Fellaiden  life  to  work  for  you.  Won't  the  best  way  be, 
perhaps,  for  you  to  ask  him  out  here  some  day  ?  Then  I  could 
talk  with  him ;  and  I  don't  see  exactly  how  else  I  could  man 
age  it." 

"  I  should  think  so  !  But  how  are  you,  or  I,  going  to  pick 
out  Phil  Mem  weather  from  the  rest  for  our  especial  devotion  ? 
There  are  all  the  other  clerks  and  shippers,  why  he  1  And 
here  are  your  mother  and  the  girls  "  —  Euphemia  and  Helen 
were  "  the  girls,"  the  little  ones  were  "  the  children,"  Fran' 
was  always  just  "  Fran'."  —  "  What  will  they  say  1 " 

"  It  will  be  you  who  will  say,  if  you  think  right,  papa.  And 
I  don't  know  about  the  others,  the  clerks  and  the  shippers,  at 
present;  I  only  do  know  about  Phil.  Where  is  he  living 
now  ? " 

"  Somewhere  at  the  South  End,  I  believe.  I  Ve  no  doubt 
he 's  found  a  comfortable  place  ;  he  seems  satisfied.  And  he 
works  well.  I  have  my  eye  on  him,  and  I  think  he  '11  do." 

"  Anyhow,  I  should  like  to  see  him.  Because  I  've  promised 
his  friends." 


324  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

"Some  of  us  are  responsible."  Those  words  of  France's 
remained  in  Mr.  Everidge's  mind.  And  something,  just  the 
least  look,  in  Phil  Merriweather's  eyes  the  next  morning,  as  if 
they  had  had  too  much  and  too  late  gaslight,  struck  the  mer 
chant's  quickened  observation  of  the  boy,  and  underscored  those 
words. 

"  I  can't  undertake  to  stand  between  them  all  and  all  Boston," 
he  thought,  with  a  certain  resentful  impatience.  Neverthe 
less,  the  impatience  had  now  to  be  with  something  that  had 
begun  to  be  alive  in  his  own  mind.  It  was  not  anybody's 
saying,  that  might  be  forgotten.  It  had  begun  to  say  itself. 

So  one  day,  before  the  week  was  over,  he  did  ask  Philip  Mer- 
riweather  to  come  out  to  his  place  and  see  what  the  country 
was  like  about  Boston.  "  My  daughter  thinks  you  may  be 
missing  the  hills  and  home,"  he  said;  "and  I  believe  she  has 
something  to  speak  to  you  about.  We  dine  at  five." 

There  was  a  certain  distance  in  the  very  ease  of  that  way  of 
putting  it.  There  was  nothing  to  hold  back  from.  All  there 
could  be  of  approach  or  mutual  concern  was  set  forth  at  once. 
My  daughter  had  something  to  speak  about.  She  might  have 
had  that  with  a  mechanic.  The  mechanic  would  have  been  sent 
to  the  door  only ;  Flip  was  to  go  in  and  have  something  to  eat : 
things  were  just  as  definite  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other, 
however. 

There  was  a  train  at  3.15,  which  the  merchant  often  took, 
and  took  to-day.  There  was  another  at  4.20,  by  which  the 
clerk  would  have  barely  time  to  render  himself;  and  he  was 
left,  naturally,  for  he  was  on  the  wharf  with  a  bill  of  lading 
when  Mr.  Everidge  went  up  town,  to  get  through  his  work, 
change  his  dress  hurriedly  at  his  boarding-house,  and  follow. 

France  found  a  difference  in  Flip  Merriweather ;  something 
was  gone  out  of  his  merry  audacity  already.  He  did  not  look 
at  her  now  as  he  would  have  looked  at  a  bird  in  a  tree,  or  any 
other  beautiful,  free  thing  that  was  safely  enough  away  from 
him,  perhaps,  and  plumed  as  he  could  not  be ;  but  that,  yet, 
he  was  on  the  same  plane  of  freedom  with  in  his  own  way. 
He  did  not  look  as  he  had  looked  among  the  hills.  He  was 
toned  down;  or  he  took  a  tone  lower,  involuntarily,  in  her 
presence. 


SAFEGUARDS.  325 

It  was  not  the  realizing  of  differences  that  he  had  not  known 
of  while  he  only  knew  the  hills  and  the  hill-people ;  there  had 
been  differences  enough  there;  and  as  soon  as  Flip  Merri- 
weather  realized  a  new  or  broader  thing,  he  realized  himself 
directly  into  it,  not  aside  from  it,  potentially,  at  least. 

Still  less  was  it  awkwardness.  He  showed  unusedness,  per 
haps  ;  but  it  was  a  very  alert  and  capable  unusedness,  that  only 
wanted,  and  did  not  miss,  the  cue.  With  his  quick  adaptability 
he  had  not  been  a  month  in  a  city  boarding-house  even,  with 
out  catching  certain  externalities  which  are  a  great  deal  more 
generally  learned  and  adopted  than  the  fenced-in  few  suppose, 
and  are  the  last  things,  now,  really  to  distinguish  anybody, 
whatever  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table  may  have  found 
true,  or  have  reordered  by  his  ukase,  twenty  years  ago.  Our 
young  fellow,  Phil,  said  neither  "  How  "  nor  "  Yes  "  interroga 
tively,  now.  He  had  dropped  these  easily  enough,  and  picked 
up  glibly  enough  the  current,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  1 "  and  "  Is 
that  so  1 "  which,  without  essential  superiority,  correspond.  He 
had  soon  observed  that  a  dinner-fork  is  not  ordinarily  held  or 
managed  like  a  pitch-fork  ;  and  that  coffee-cups  have  the  sugges- 
tiveness  of  handles,  and  do  not  need  the  embrace  of  three  fingers 
and  a  dip  of  a  fourth.  He  had  learned  to  break  bread  before 
spreading  it,  and  to  dispose  of  solid  food  before  taking  in  liquid  ; 
also  the  grace  and  comfort  of  a  touch  of  a  napkin  between  the 
two.  He  was  guilty  of  no  gaucherie  at  the  Everidge  dinner- 
table. 

But  when  France  sat  down  to  talk  with  him  afterward,  left 
to  her  as  he  was  by  the  elder  ladies  of  the  family,  she  saw  then 
that  not  an  ignorance,  but  a  knowledge  made  the  boy  conscious 
before  her,  and  took  down  his  mountain  boldness.  Some  touch 
of  the  world  had  taught  him,  as  it  taught  Adam  in  Eden,  to 
turn  shamefaced.  It  was  time  already  she  felt,  without  dis 
tinctly  discerning  why,  that  her  errand  had  come  to  him. 

She  had  the  quick,  heavenly  wisdom  to  move  straight  upon 
the  truth.  She  told  him  what  she  wanted  of  him,  then  she 
said,  "It  will  be  best  for  you  too,  Philip.  I  do  not  think  it 
can  be  good  to  come  straight  from  those  pure  hills  into  the 
thick  of  city  living.  The  air  tastes  bad." 


326  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

And  her  clear  girl's  eyes  —  clear  to  the  element  of  the  thing, 
but  pure  and  unconscious  of  particular  —  turned  themselves 
full  into  his.  They  reached  through  to  the  best  of  him,  like  the 
sword  of  the  spirit.  They  came  in  time,  while  the  bad  air  did 
after  all  still  taste  bad. 

He  thanked  her  in  very  meek  fashion  for  Flip  Merriweather 
of  the  Thumble-Side,  said  it  was  good  of  her  to  think  of  him, 
and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  go  and  see  ;  taking  his  hat  as  she 
asked  him  to  do,  and  walking  with  her  down  the  hill  to  the 
Pyes'  Nest,  as  Tobias  went  with  the  angel. 

It  was  quickly  settled.  Flip,  good-looking,  boy-young  and 
man-strong,  fresh  and  keen  in  business  ways  and  wideawakeness, 
to  be  away  all  day  and  home  by  eleven  at  night  at  the  very 
latest  times,  "  which  he  would  n't  care  about  often,"  he  said 
under  the  pure  blade-flash  of  the  angel  eyes,  and  in  Mr.  Everidge's 
employ,  with  Finance  to  especially  indorse  and  befriend  him, 
was  exactly  what  the  Miss  Pyes  had  figured  among  themselves. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Pyes'  Nest,  with  its  quaint,  pretty 
ordering,  and  Misses  Chat  and  Bab  and  Mag,  with  their  home 
like  patter  of  kind  talk  and  the  fun  that  he  could  see  in  them, 
the  gable-room  they  showed  him,  that  looked  out  upon  a  bit  of 
the  river  and  a  turn  of  the  railway  just  before  it  reached  the 
border  of  the  village  whence  it  made  his  ready  link  with  town, 
and  a  peep  in  passing  at  the  exquisite  ready-laid  tea-table,  in 
whose  appointments  the  maiden  sisters  were  curiously  nice  and 
fanciful,  —  to  the  flare  of  a  teacup-rim  or  the  turn  of  a  smug 
little  creampot,  — just  took  the  fancy  of  the  boy  from  the  farms, 
to  whom  they  opened  pass  for  him  right  into  a  life  that  the 
South-End  boarding-house  was  far  away  outside  of. 

"  And  you  will  soon  not  be  a  stranger  here,  and  you  will  have 
us  to  come  and  see,"  France  said,  very  sweet  and  sisterly.  And 
so  the  agreement  was  made  :  a  week  after  Flip  came  out  with 
his  valise-trunk  to  the  Nest,  and  things  that  they  did  not  ex 
actly  take  into  account  were  more  closely  linked  together  than 
any  of  them  kqew. 


BOLTS    AND   BONDS.  327 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

BOLTS   AND    BONDS. 

WE  must  go  back  into  the  summer,  —  into  the  day  on  which 
Sarell  had  been  borrowed  for  the  exigencies  at  East  Hollow, 
leaving  those  of  Heybrook  Farmhouse  to  fare  as  they  might. 
She  had  come  away  with  Hollis  Bassett,  under  the  mild  regret 
ful  sufferance  of  Mother  Heybrook's  parting  glance,  and  the 
condemnation  of  Israel's  cold  shoulder.  She  wondered  proudly 
and  mutely  if  some  time  they  would  n't  know  better ;  know 
whether  she  had  counted  this  bit  of  her  life  dear  unto  herself; 
whether,  in  her  loyal  desertion,  she  had  not  been  braver  than  if 
she  had  stood  by. 

The  very  climax  and  break  of  the  whole  hot  thunder-breed 
ing  season  came  in  the  tempest  of  that  afternoon.  East  Hollow 
lay  straight  in  its  path  ;  straight  in  the  range  from  Sudley 
slopes  to  the  south  valley. 

It  grew  dark  in  the  low-ceiled  farmhouse.  Mother  Pemble 
could  scarcely  see  to  count  the  stitches  in  her  new  quilt-stripe. 
Uncle  Amb  was  rather  feeling  his  way  among  his  familiar 
bundles  of  papers  in  the  old  secretary  than  examining  them  or 
deciphering  their  written  indorsements.  He  was  looking  for  a 
certain  parcel  that  he  knew  of  geographically  by  its  location  in 
division  and  pigeon-hole ;  specifically  by  feel  and  complexion, 
and  the  grouping  of  the  labelling  lines  across  the  corner  of  its 
outward  wrap. 

Every  once  in  a  while,  with  varying  impulse  regarding  the 
affairs  the  papers  represented,  according  as  his  moods  of  con 
science  or  of  self-seeking  got  the  uppermost,  he  had  been  used 
to  draw  forth  the  file  and  carefully  restudy  the  documents, 
even  the  far-back  document  of  all,  as  if  by  any  new  searching 
of  familiar  word  and  phrase  new  aspect  might  be  given  either 
to  his  obligation  or  his  prolonged  evasion.  This  was  not  so 


328  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

very  strange  a  play  of  human  nature  :  men  search  the  Sacred 
and  Immutable  Word  itself,  as  if  with  some  such  vague  and 
blind  expectance. 

There  lay  the  old  bond,  then,  cancelled  long  ago  in  the  court 
records,  but  of  which  he  had  kept  this  copy, —  a  life  in  itself 
looking  forth  at  him  if  ever  he  half  turned  to  destroy  it,  which 
would  not  let  him  take  its  evidence  away.  Perhaps  he  was 
afraid,  in  that  part  of  him  which  recognized  a  truth  and  justice 
with  which  sooner  or  later  he  must  make  himself  at  one  or  be 
eternally  condemned,  to  put  away  the  kind  of  external  con 
science  that  it  was  to  him,  lest  by  the  sign  he  put  away  also 
the  inner  sense  that  was  the  spirit  of  God ;  the  sense  that  kept 
him  from  altogether  letting  go  the  original  fact  as  past  and  done 
with,  and  sliding  into  an  established  acceptance  of  the  resulting 
situation  as  a  mere  "  unfort'nitness "  which  he  and  his  half- 
brother  had  somehow  fallen  into  together,  and  which  together 
they  had  simply  got  to  bear ;  the  latter  the  more  easily  of  the 
two,  because  he  had  his  boys  and  his  brisk  wife  to  help  him, 
while  Deacon  Amb  had  only  himself,  "an'  all  them  wimmen- 
folks  a  hangin'  on  to  him."  Truly,  in  his  ordinary  conscious 
ness,  this  was  almost  the  way,  if  he  had  defined  it,  that  it  had 
come  to  look  to  him ;  even,  at  times, —  especially  paying  times, 
—  as  if  the  main  misfortune  had  been  Welcome's  own,  in  which 
he  had  become  implicated.  Yet  something,  back  of  himself, 
had  kept  him,  all  the  while,  from  an  act  that  should  seem  to 
abnegate,  or  release  him  from,  the  truth.  He  did  not  mean,  in 
the  long  end,  to  violate  or  defy  this  inmost  of  him ;  in  other 
words,  to  lose  his  own  soul. 

"  Ef  he  should  be  spared  to  them  ninety-nine  years  an'  a 
week,  an'  be  prospered," —  that  was  what  he  had  always  said  to 
himself,  or  to  the  overhearing  Providence,  holding  on  to  it  as 
the  leading  phrase  and  condition  of  the  contract, —  then,  long 
before  he  went  to  his  great  account,  he  should  settle  this  small 
one  squarely  with  his  half-brother ;  although,  indeed,  there  was 
a  proviso  by  which  he  felt  Providence  was  doubly  secured,  and 
a  way  of  escape  by  the  same  loop  left  open  for  that  conscience 
of  justice  in  himself:  if  things  did  happen  otherwise,  the  law 
would  turn  over  to  Welcome,  or  his  boys,  what  would  more 


BOLTS   AND   BONDS.  329 

than  make  it  good  ;  seeing  that  there  was  no  child  here,  nor 
any  closer  kin  ;  and  he  never  meant  to  make  a  will.  Care'line 
had  the  farm ;  and  her  halves  of  whatever  else  there  might 
be  would  be  all  she  had  any  right  to  look  for.  No ;  Mother 
Pemble  might  watch  and  hint  and  hector ;  but  he  never 
meant  to  make  a  will. 

With  the  bond  were  tied  up  all  accounts,  receipts,  etc.,  that 
there  had  ever  been  between  the  two  men,  of  other  and  more 
ordinary  nature ;  also  the  memorandums  of  the  sums  "  ad 
vanced  "  from  time  to  time  to  Welcome  Heybrook,  since  that 
interest-paying  on  the  mortgage  had  been  going  on.  The 
balances  by  which  Heybrook  had  made  up  the  payments,  or  the 
quarterly  amounts  he  had  often  been  obliged  to  furnish  wholly 
by  himself,  had  been  scored  only  mentally,  with  the  accompa 
nying  honest  intentions  ;  being  always  easily  arrived  at  in  these 
lookings-over  of  the  record,  by  the  simple  subtraction  of  the 
loans  from  the  aggregate  of  the  regular  percentage.  Ambrose 
did  not  like  to  put  too  many  items  in  open  black  and  white. 

During  the  last  year  the  deacon  had  been  in  less  danger  of 
slipping  into  that  fatal  ease  of  conscience  against  which  the 
bond  stood  as  reminder.  There  were  other  things,  now,  to 
keep  him  from  forgetting,  and  from  feeling  too  comfortable  in 
the  suspension  of  the  claims  he  was  so  virtuous  in  not  repudiat 
ing.  They  were  the  things,  in  short,  that  moved  him  at  the 
present  moment  to  the  revolving  of  certain  plans  and  devices 
from  which  should  be  a  beginning  —  kinky  and  crooked,  to  be 
sure,  and  returning  upon  themselves  —  of  the  magnanimous 
final  restitution.  But  we  will  take  him  up  where  he  sits,  now, 
at  the  old  secretary,  in  the  thunderous  gloom  of  the  August 
afternoon. 

The  heavy  cloud,  rolling  down  over  Sndley  WToods,  spreading 
above  the  Centre  basin,  and  gathered  again  before  the  great 
rush  of  the  wind  that  compressed  and  drove  it  between  the 
towering  mountain-spurs  below,  hung  close  with  its  massive 
drift  above  the  Hollow  Farm  and  its  neighborhood.  It  grew 
darker  and  darker. 

Mother  Pemble  dropped  her  knitting-work,  with  its  steel 
needles,  into  the  wide  bag  at  her  bedside,  pushed  a  pillow  down 


330  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

between  her  and  it,  and  lay  back  with  hands  piously  folded. 
Uncle  Amb  fumbled  on  at  his  papers. 

"  How  you  ken  set  there,  with  all  them  brass  handles  an* 
ornimints,  an'  them  three  sharp  knobs  a  pintin'  up  overhead, 
an'  all  them  keys  a-danglin'  at  y'r  elber,  it  passes  me  t'  know  ! " 
apostrophized  Mother  Pemble.  One  would  think  her  tenderly 
solicitous  for  the  deacon's  safety ;  but  however  that  may  have 
been,  she  at  least  did  not  want  him  sent  for,  then  and  there, 
before  her  eyes,  by  any  sudden,  visible  dispensation.  "  It 's  a 
temptin'  o'  Providunce,"  she  said. 

"That  don't  tempt  it,"  the  deacon  answered  with  assurance. 
"  Providunce  ain't  a  dunce.  We  sh'll  all  be  called  when  our  times 
come,  an'  not  a  minute  afore." 

In  his  limited  apprehension,  he  partly  and  dimly  conceived 
that  the  Overruling  Power  might  be  in  some  measure  persuaded 
by  this  frank  crediting  of  Its  Wisdom, —  partly  held  real  under 
lying  confidence  in  that  time  of  his  as  comfortably  fixed, —  and 
greatly  relied,  at  the  actual  moment,  upon  being  so  righteously 
employed  as  in  the  very  business  of  the  Just  Dealer.  "  Heirs 
and  assigns."  Those  were  the  words  that  were  running  through 
his  mind  as  he  turned  over  slowly  the  docketed  files. 

The  heirs  and  assigns  of  Ambrose  Newell,  in  the  old  trust 
deed  ;  the  heirs  and  assigns  of  Welcome  Heybrook,  in  the  old 
trustee  bond.  How,  even  in  the  statutes  of  men,  it  was  pro 
vided  that  the  acts  of  the  fathers  should  be  binding  upon  the 
children,  and  that  the  children  should  pay  the  penalties ! 

That  they  should  avenge  the  rights,  also. 

Ambrose  Newell,  childless  old  man,  had  these  sons  of  Wel 
come's,  heirs  to  them  both  now,  to  deal  with.  They  did  not 
come  into  the  instrument  except  as  heirs.  He  had  no  con 
sciousness  of  how  it  had  stood  between  them  and  the  life  they 
might  have  chosen ;  of  any  inheritance  or  right  which  he, 
through  it,  had  already  robbed  them  of. 

But  they  were  to  be  dealt  with  now.  Those  boys  had  come 
to  the  front.  Those  boys  had  suddenly  turned  into  men ;  had 
taken  upon  themselves  family  interests  and  responsibilities,  and 
understood,  now,  from  the  bottom,  he  had  every  reason  to  sup 
pose,  family  affairs  and  history.  In  the  first  years  of  the 


BOLTS   AND   BONDS.  331 

difficulty  that  had  come  upon  their  father, —  when  their  mother 
took  to  entertaining  summer  boarders,  and  so  kept  them  at 
their  studies  a  while  longer, —  they  only  knew  of  it  as  "an 
obligation  father  had  signed  away  back  years  ago,  for  Uncle 
Amb ;  and  that  had  come  down  upon  him  through  Uncle  Arab's 
losing  money."  They  knew  the  farm  was  mortgaged  and  inter 
est  had  to  be  paid ;  that  in  consequence  Lyman  could  not  go  on 
fitting  for  college,  or  Israel  finish  his  four  years  at  the  Boston 
Institute,  and  then  go  to  Germany.  From  being  "  forehanded," 
and  able  to  plan  great  things  scarcely  before  heard  of  among 
the  simple  farm  folk,  they  had  to  come  back  to  hard  work  and 
close  management  and  plain  prospects.  But  they  naturally, 
as  time  went  on,  found  out  the  why,  and  the  condition  and  the 
extent  of  their  hindrance.  The  result  was  —  especially  with 
the  proud,  silent  Rael  —  a  deep  contempt  of  their  uncle,  the 
meek  deacon,  which  the  latter  realized  in  a  certain  quiet,  abso 
lute  avoidance,  and  by  and  by  in  a  withdrawal  of  any  business 
reference  to  himself  on  the  father's  part,  who  ceased  to  come  to 
him  for  help  to  meet  those  quarterly  "li'bilities."  For  six 
three-monthly  returns  of  interest-day  no  item  had  been  added 
to  that  memorandum  of  "advances."  When  he  ventured  to 
approach  the  subject  inquiringly  with  Welcome,  he  had  been 
briefly  and  gravely  answered,  "  My  boys  have  taken  it  in 
hand." 

"  Well,  "  the  deacon  had  returned  sheepishly  and  hesitat 
ingly  to  that,  "  ef  they  want  any  help  abaout  it,  ye  know  "  — 

"They  won't,"  interrupted  Mr.  Heybrook  in  the  same  short, 
staid  way,  "  not  'ntell  ye  c'n  help  'em  left  the  prenc'p'l." 

That  lay  with  a  weight  on  the  deacon's  mind.  His  time  did 
not  look  so  long  or  so  sure  to  him.  The  question  of  demand 
and  exposure  was  shifted.  It  rested  now  with  these  boys, 
one  of  them  already  a  stern,  upright  man.  He  would  not 
like  to  have  Israel  Heybrook  come  to  him  with  the  old  quiet 
interrogatory  of  his  father,  "  Have  n't  you  anything  to  settle 
it  with  ? " 

Uncle  Amb  had  drawn  forth  from  a  big  wallet,  one  after 
another,  three  of  those  crisp,  crackling  documents,  the  merest 
rustle  of  which  went  straight  along  all  Mother  Pemble's  nerves, 


332  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

as  over  the  wires  of  a  telephone.  He  had  laid  them  in  the  open 
middle  compartment  of  the  desk  between  the  pigeon-holes,  then 
he  had  begun  searching  out  the  old  deeds  and  accounts. 

He  had  been  into  Hawksbury  the  day  before,  and  had  had  a 
long  talk  with  Squire  Puttenham. 

At  this  very  moment,  Squire  Puttenham,  who  had  manifested 
no  haste  yesterday  to  conclude  the  matter  inquired  of  and  sug 
gested  in  their  interview,  was  struggling  slowly  along  on  his 
lean  sorrel  nag  against  the  swelling  rush  of  the  coming  tem 
pest,  up  the  ascent  from  the  South  Thumble  Valley. 

He  was  almost  at  the  turn  where  the  meadow  road  came  down 
by  a  short  crossway  this  side.  There  he  would  be  comparatively 
sheltered,  and  a  few  minutes  would  bring  him  to  East  Hollow. 
He  was  accounting  to  the  deacon,  in  mental  rehearsal,  for  his  seem 
ing  urgency.  "  The  cloud  was  n't  in  sight  when  I  left  Hawks- 
bury,"  he  said.  "And  I  had  business  over  to  East  Centre. 
Thought  I  'd  look  in  here,  an'  finally  had  to."  But  not  a  word 
of  all  that  did  he  repeat  when  he  got  to  the  deacon's  door. 

Uncle  Amb  sat  at  length  with  the  papers  in  his  hand  that  he 
had  need  of.  But  it  was  too  dark  in  the  low  room  to  read 
them  now,  until  the  cloud  should  have  passed.  He  laid  them 
back  with  those  other  clean,  crisp  sheets  into  the  wide  middle 
compartment  of  the  secretary,  closed  the  rolling  front,  took  the 
keys  in  his  hand,  and  then,  before  locking  the  desk  to  leave  it 
for  the  compulsory  interval,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  stood  by 
the  front  window  beyond  it,  to  look  out  upon  the  storm  and 
judge  of  its  probable  duration. 

At  the  instant,  a  roar  and  rush  descended  upon  the  hollow 
from  the  black  north,  —  a  hurtling  sound,  as  great,  jagged  ice- 
fragments  came  down  in  fierce  discharge  before  the  blast,  shoot 
ing  in  oblique,  deadly  lines  upon  the  harvest  fields.  They  beat 
upon  the  long  slant  of  the  farmhouse  roof  like  hammers.  The 
glass  lights  of  dairy  and  shed-room  began  to  shiver  in  upon  the 
floors.  That  lasted  scarcely  for  two  minutes.  If  it  had  gone 
on  for  ten,  the  grain  would  have  been  ground  in  its  sheaths, 
and  the  old  shingles  would  have  been  riddled  as  by  bullets. 

It  paused  as  suddenly  as  it  had  set  on.  Then,  a  long  blue 
quiver  from  overhead  streamed  down  and  backward  from  the 


BOLTS   AND   BONDS.  333 

southward-hurrying  cloud  athwart  the  very  ridgepole,  rending 
the  air  as  if  it  were  a  solid  substance  ;  and  distinctly  the  crack 
and  split  of  timber  was  heard  in  that  long  awfulness  which  a 
second  of  time  is  filled  with,  when,  through  every  separate  par 
ticle  or  fibre  of  thing  or  soul,  the  shock  is  felt  and  followed  that 
overwhelms  it. 

Mother  Pemble  sat  straight  up  in  bed.  Deacon  Ambrose 
neither  saw  nor  thought  of  her.  How  he  never  knew,  — 
whether  by  outward  force  or  inward  electrifying  that  sent  him 
with  involuntary  spring,  impossible  to  his  mere  muscles,  —  he 
was  hurled  from  the  window,  and  found  himself  staggering 
backward  against  the  opposite  wall. 

Whatever  action  or  movement  of  his  own  had  immediately 
preceded  the  catastrophe  was  for  the  time  obliterated  from  his 
mind.  His  right  hand  was  benumbed,  then  it  quivered  and 
stung  with  pain. 

He  blundered  to  the  door,  made  for  the  back  rooms  of  the 
dwelling,  he  knew  not  why,  — following  instinctively  the  fearful 
rush  of  sound  that  had  swept  over  him  for  an  instant  and  left 
as  it  were  an  echoing  trail  in  the  mere  memory  of  hearing.  It 
was  simply  all  of  him  that  could  remember  or  retain. 

Sarell  and  Hollis  were  out  in  the  shed-room.  They  were 
crowding  up  some  old  mats  against  the  broken  windows. 
Care'line  was  in  her  bedroom.  The  old  man  passed  every 
body  by,  went  in  a  half  headlong  fashion,  as  if  the  strange 
impetus  which  started  him  were  not  yet  exhausted,  to  the  door 
in  the  far  end,  and  opened  it  right  out  against  the  columns  of 
the  now  driving  rain. 

A  huge  buttonwood  tree  that  grew  by  the  corner  of  the  barn 
building  a  few  paces  off  had  been  rent  straight  down  its  trunk. 
One  half  had  fallen  ;  it  stretched  across  the  crushed  rails  of 
the  hog-pen,  and  heaped  its  branches  high  up  in  the  garden 
beyond. 

The  defining  of  the  occurrence  restored  point  and  balance  to 
the  deacon's  mind.  The  fresh,  sweet  air — the  bolts  of  rain,  their 
tremendous  discharge,  instantaneous  and  complete,  like  each 
successive  outrush  of  the  tempest,  were  already  shortening  and 
thinning,  and  the  clear,  blue  light  was  sifting  through  the 


334  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

clouds  —  revived  him.  He  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  remem 
bered  his  poor  swine.  He  gave  the  familiar  call  to  them.  Not 
a  squeal  or  a  grunt  answered.  Three  magnificent  porkers,  as 
they  found  out  presently,  lay  there  dead. 

But  the  house  and  the  barn  were  spared.  A  delicious  breath, 
that  could  hardly  be  of  the  same  atmosphere  that  had  brewed 
the  hurricane,  stole  gently  through  the  opened  rooms.  The  sun 
shot  a  long-slanted  beam,  that  turned  the  tree-bosoms  golden, 
and  kindled  the  mercy-sign  in  loveliest  color  against  the  sullen, 
distant-dropping  vapor-masses.  The  very  hailstones  had  not 
melted  yet  under  the  fences ;  but  the  bruised  cornblades  were 
shining  in  a  new,  sweet  light,  and  all  forth  into  the  deep  and 
tender  west,  wide  gates  began  to  open  on  a  lavish,  compensating 
glory. 

Everybody  but  Mother  Pemble  was  out  there  by  the  door, 
breathless  with  the  amazement  and  the  sudden  peace.  And  old 
Squire  Puttenham,  forgetting  to  give  a  reason  why,  came  riding, 
pale  and  dripping,  into  the  house-yard. 

It  was  a  good  ten  minutes  after,  —  when  damage  had  been 
hastily  reconnoitred,  when  Squire  Puttenham,  shivering,  had 
looked  over  the  fallen  tree  into  the  debris  of  the  pig-pen,  upon 
the  huddled  bodies  of  the  swine  that  lay  in  a  limp,  strange 
heap,  as  if  one  boneless,  jellied  mass ;  when  he  had  ejaculated, 
with  a  certain  restraint,  being  a  non-professor,  "  Well,  Deacon, 
that 's  a  tumble  sort  o'  thing,  ain't  it  ] "  and  Ambrose  had 
replied,  diaconally.  "  It 's  sollum,  Square !  It  might  'a  ben  you  or 
me! "to  which  Sarell,  a  little  in  the  background,  had  responded 
with  innocent  great  eyes  and  a  tinge  of  the  same  devoutness, 
"  Jest  as  well  as  not !  "  —  it  was  then  that  Care'line  recollected 
the  east  room  and  its  helpless  tenant. 

"  Do,  f '  mercy's  sake  somebody  go  look  after  ma  !  "  she  said 
in  her  soft,  large-vowelled  way.  And  Sarell  went. 

The  deacon  bethought  himself  of  hospitality,  and  led  the 
old  squire  in  to  the  kitchen  fire. 

Mother  Pemble  lay  looking  after  the  deacon.  Was  he  struck] 
she  wondered. 

But  she  heard  his  steps,  recovering  themselves  as  he  went 
to  something  of  the  usual  shuffle,  continue  on  through  the 


BOLTS   AND   BONDS.  335 

opened  house-way.  And  presently  Care'line's  ponderous,  but 
elephant-like  cushioned  tread  follow,  with  such  rapidity  as  was 
consonant,  after  him,  from  her  bedroom.  Even  electricity  would 
take  appreciable  time  to  thrill  through  Care'line,  or  send  her 
anywhere. 

Then  the  horseback  rider  passed  the  windows  ;  and  then 
came  all  the  voices  and  the  moist  wind  through  the  rooms,  from 
far  away  there  out  of  doors. 

Mother  Pemble's  eyes  had  not  waited  for  her  ears.  They 
were  used  —  her  senses  —  to  swift  division  of  labor.  The  dea 
con  never  departed  in  ordinary  fashion  that  she  did  not  follow 
his  track  searchingly,  as  if  some  clew  or  testimony  might  have 
been  dropped  in  it. 

This  time  something  was  dropped.  Off  there  by  the  cup 
board  wall  lay  the  sacred,  inaccessible  bunch  of  keys.  At  last 
her  chance  had  come. 

"  It  took  a  thunder-clap  to  do  it,  though  !  "  Mother  Pemble 
ejaculated  in  a  whisper,  as  she  got  up  on  her  knees  in  bed. 

Soft,  reflected  light  was  smiling  in  at  the  front  windows. 
The  storm  was  broken,  and  was  drifting  harmlessly  off.  That 
had  been  the  whole  of  it.  " An'  it  was  sent"  Mother  Pemble 
said  to  herself,  with  the  piousness  that  seeketh  and  findeth  its 
perverted  own. 

If  it  had  still  been  sending,  she  might  have  suffered  the  tortures 
of  Tantalus,  with  her  opportunity  lying  there  before  her  eyes, 
and  remained  passive.  In  that  blaze  of  heaven  she  would  have 
been  afraid  of  the  touch  of  something,  perhaps,  more  essentially 
dangerous  than  the  dangerous  metal.  But  under  the  restored 
light  of  common  day,  and  in  the  common  equilibrium,  things 
that  glared  and  thrilled  with  sudden  threat  subside  swiftly  into 
passive  innocuousness.  There  is  even  something  exhilarant 
and  intensifying  to  the  habitual  mood  and  motive  in  the  reaction 
to  it  from  what  momentarily  drove  it  out  and  now  puts  on  to 
calm  review  a  morbid  color. 

She  had  a  right  to  know.  That,  at  least.  She  had  waited  for 
something  like  this,  she  knew  not  what,  and  it  had  come.  There 
was  not  a  second  to  waste  in  hesitating.  For  doing,  —  for  fol 
lowing  up  with  after-measures,  —  there  was  no  question  of  that 
at  present. 


336  ODD,    OR    EVEN? 

Uncle  Amb  had  left  her  door,  every  door  in  succession,  wide 
open.  There  was  no  latching  down  or  shutting  in.  He  would 
recollect  or  reason  well  enough  that  it  had  been  so. 

But  Mother  Peinble  had  practised  certain  motions  like  a  cat. 

In  an  instant  she  had  slid  from  under  her  bedclothes  and 
slipped  across  the  room. 

For  a  half  breath  she  hesitated  with  the  bunch  of  keys  in  her 
liand,  and  her  glance  directed  longingly  to  the  secretary.  But 
she  glided  back,  plunged  her  hand  into  her  bedside  bag,  and 
drew  forth  a  key  similar  in  size  to  the  longest,  slenderest  one  of 
the  deacon's.  These  two,  sliding  her  spectacles  down  from  the 
top  of  her  head  to  her  nose,  she  carefully  compared  ;  put  wards 
to  wards,  and  measured  their  divisions ;  nodded  her  head,  with 
eyes  of  delight,  seeing  that  her  own  differed  only  in  respect  of 
a  single  projection,  which  was  a  hair's  breadth  too  wide.  It  /tad 
almost  fitted.  Why  not  quite,  she  had  not  before  known. 

She  set  her  ears  like  a  hare's  for  another  second's  listening. 
Then  she  dropped  her  own  key  back  into  its  place,  flitted  over 
to  the  panelled  wall  again,  and  noiselessly  deposited  the  bunch 
precisely  on  the  spot  whence  she  had  lifted  it ;  listened  again, 
and  with  swift  steps  reached  the  secretary.  She  was  pretty 
sure  he  had  not  fastened  it.  This  chance  had  seemed  of  itself 
to  be  enough  till  her  eyes  had  fallen  blessedly  upon  the  other. 
Now,  "  please  the  pigs,"  —  she  actually  uttered  that  fetish- 
invocation  in  her  eager  glee,  not  dreaming  how  with  grim 
grotesqueness  it  applied,  —  she  would  have  both.  But  the 
one  that  gave  a  power,  to  which  the  other  would  but  confirm 
a  satisfying  motive,  had  been  made  sure  of. 

She  tried  the  little  brass  knob.  She  was  right.  The  grooved 
slide  rolled  back. 

Inside,  directly  before  her,  lay  the  papers,  —  three,  large,  new, 
separate,  sharply  folded  ;  a  thin  bundle  of  others,  old,  narrow, 
corner-curled,  irregular. 

She  noted,  instantaneously,  just  how  they  were  placed  ;  then 
quickly  ran  through  the  fresh  sheets  with  a  half  unfolding  of 
each  one,  frightening  herself  with  its  crackle,  as  she  listened 
keenly  beyond  it  all  the  while  for  any  movement  toward  her  in 
the  house. 


BOLTS   AND   BONDS.  337 

They  were  bonds  for  one  thousand  dollars  each,  two  of  them 
headed,  in  a  clear,  handsome,  semicircular  line  of  copperplate 
lettering,  "Rutland  Railroad  Company;"  the  other,  with  its 
conspicuous  horizontal  imprint,  "  United  States  of  America," 
bearing  at  top,  in  two  comfortable  little  curves,  "  Five  per 
cent  Consols  "  —  "  of  the  United  States." 

"  I  knowed  it !  I  knowed  it !  An'  I  '11  lay  my  life  there  's 
more  on  'em ! "  The  barefooted,  spectacled,  nightcapped  old 
lady  chuckled  as  she  tremblingly  replaced  them,  her  eyes  fairly 
scintillating  sparks  through  her  glasses. 

Something  tingled  in  her  ears  with  the  excitement  that  con 
fused  her  listening ;  a  panic  seized  her ;  she  dared  not  examine 
the  tied-up  parcel.  Hastily  adjusting  them  all  to  lie  precisely 
as  she  had  found  them,  she  rolled  the  panel  forward,  turned 
toward  the  bed,  and  had  just  passed  round  its  foot  when  Sarell's 
brisk  step  came  along  the  passage. 

Mother  Pemble  had  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  did  it. 

She  stretched  herself  down  upon  the  floor,  face  flat  and  arms 
out-flung,  close  beside  the  standard  of  her  table  and  partly  be 
neath  the  hanging  folds  and  fringes  of  the  valance. 

"  Oh  dear  !  Oh  dear  ! "  she  moaned  then,  as  she  lay  there,  and 
Sarell  came  in. 

"  Is  that  you,  Care'line1?  I  thought  you  'd  never  a  come,  — 
noan  on  ye  !  " 

She  had  made  a  mistake  there  ;  she  could  not  think  of  every 
thing,  and  Sarell  caught  her  up. 

"  Care'line  !  "  she  repeated  scornfully.  "  You  know  better  'n 
that.  You  know  a  wheelbarrer  from  a  hayriggin' !  You  know 
best  how  you  come  down  there,  Mother  Pemble  ! " 

"  I  don't  know  nothin' ! "  whimpered  the  prostrate  woman. 
"  The  deac'n  was  in  here  ;  I  don'  know  !  I  'm  right  here  where 
ye  see  me.  'T  would  n't  be  strange  if  we  's  both  struck." 

"  I  should  n't  persume  it  would,"  assented  Sarell  coolly,  for 
the  second  time,  "  only  you  ain't."  And  she  stood  stock  still, 
looking  at  her. 

"  Ain't  ye  goin'  t'  help  me  ?  0,  ye  crewel-hearted  thing ! 
Ain't  ye  ashamed  ]  Do  fetch  somebody  an'  left  me  up !  Oh 
dear!  "  and  "  Oh  dear  I  " 

22 


338  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Sarell,  deliberately  advancing.  "  I  don't 
want  no  help.  Nor  you  neither,  Mother  Pemble,  more  'n  you  've 
hed  these  seven  years,  an'  that  ain't  mine  nor  Care'line's  nor 
yet  the  Lord's  !  " 

She  stooped  down  and  put  her  strong  arms  around  and  under 
the  limp  figure  that  had  not  grown  heavy  with  the  years  of  pre 
sumed  inaction,  but  had  rather  thinned,  Mother  Pemble's  life 
being  more  that  of  the  nerves  than  the  nutrition.  She  lifted  it 
with  pure  mechanical  power,  and  no  slightest  motive  of  tender 
ness.  It  might  have  been  a  log  and  not  a  woman.  She  laid  it 
in  its  place  among  the  pillows,  drawing  up  the  coverings  over 
it.  Then  she  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  with  her  face  to 
ward  the  bed.  "  You  'd  as  good 's  not  be  left  alone  again,  I 
guess,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  Mother  Pemble  answered  in  a  humble,  long- 
suffering  way.  "  Y'  ain't  bad  t'  me  after  all,  Sarell.  Y'r  bark 's 
worse  'n  y'r  bite." 

"So's  a  miskeeter's,"  returned  Sarell.  "  But  it  means  bite, 
too,  ef  y'  don't  look  out,  an'  so  there  's  fair  waruin'.  I  alwers 
respected  a  miskeeter  f 'r  that." 

Mother  Pemble  changed  the  subject.  "It  was  an  awful 
clap,"  she  said,  still  feebly.  "  Something  must  'a  ben  struck,  — 
ef  't  wa'  n't  the  deac'n  'n  I." 

"  Thiz  three  hogs  killed,"  Sarell  answered  in  the  same  un 
moved  manner,  but  with  the  least  exquisite  emphasis  on  the 
numeral. 

At  which  point  Care'line  entered  and  Sarell  departed,  leav 
ing  mother  and  daughter  to  their  own  inquiries  and  explana 
tions. 

The  deacon  came  in,  with  no  personal  inquiries,  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  and  making  straight  for  his  desk. 

"  Where 's  my  keys  1 "  he  said  then,  withdrawing  his  fingers 
from  the  unaccustomed  emptiness,  and  regarding  the  secretary- 
front,  from  which  nothing  dangled. 

"  I  must  'a  hed  'em  in  my  hand.  'T  ain't  locked  !  Where 
be  they  1 "  and  he  wheeled,  with  the  vague,  angry  challenge 
some  men  use  in  such  perplexity,  upon  the  two  women. 

"Why  don't  you  look  the  way  you  went,  Ambrose  1 "  his 


BOLTS   AND   BONDS.  339 

placid  wife  interrogated.  "  Things  seem  to  have  flew.  Here 's 
ma  ben  tumbled  out  o'  bed,  an'  Sarell  just  picked  her  up." 

"  He  don't  ask  after  me,"  parenthesized  Mother  Pemble's  ex 
hausted  whine. 

"An'  the  clock's  stopped,"  went  on  Care'line,  without  change 
of  tone.  "  An'  there  's  your  keys,  I  guess,  over  against  the 
winscot." 

The  deacon  picked  up  the  keys  as  if  she  ought  to  have  spoken 
before. 

He  looked  into  the  secretary,  saw  all  as  it  had  been,  then 
closed  and  locked  it  with  a  more  vigorous  twist  than  usual,  and 
went  forth  again  to  join  Squire  Puttenham,  with  whom  he 
presently  walked  away  into  the  barn. 

Half  points  only  were  made,  in  any  reckonings,  by  what  had 
happened. 

Mother  Pemble  had  seen  with  her  own  eyes  those  precious 
bonds.  But  there  still  remained  the  anxiety  as  to  what  the 
deacon  might  mean  or  manage  to  do  with  them. 

Sarell  Gately,  with  her  own  eyes  also,  had  had  evidence 
toward  a  fact  which  she  believed  existent ;  she  too  might  have 
"  laid  her  life  there  was  more  of  'em."  And  yet  it  had  been  but 
half  evidence,  she  was  constrained  presently  to  acknowledge, 
though  she  had  so  boldly  put  it  at  the  moment  to  the  abject 
old  woman.  Rashly,  also ;  there  was  nothing  to  gain  by  pre 
cipitancy.  Who  should  say  that  in  such  fright  and  shock  a 
partly  helpless  creature  might  not  have  half  flung  herself  and 
half  been  flung,  or  dragged  from  bed  to  floor,  as  she  had  found 
her  ]  Just  how  much  Mother  Pemble  was  able  to  do  remained 
unproved.  That  she  should  have  got  so  far  and  no  farther,  — 
but  had  she  got  no  farther  ?  Sarell  wondered  when  she  heard 
about  them,  whether  Mother  Pemble  could  possibly  have  had 
any  brief  handling  of  those  keys.  The  question  in  that  case 
was,  what  she  could  possibly  have  accomplished  by  it  1 

Sarell  could  not  altogether  "  riddle  it  out."  But  she  came 
afresh  to  one  conclusion,  confirming  her  mind  in  it.  That  it 
was  high  time  some  honest  folks  should  have  a  leading  hold  of 
the  ropes  at  East  Hollow  ;  and  that  it  was  her  manifest  destiny 
to  establish  herself  there,  in  the  winter  that  was  coming,  as 
Mrs.  Hollis  Bassett. 


840  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

CASH  AND  INVESTMENT. 

DEACON  NEWELL  and  Squire  Puttenham  had  been  talking 
about  investments.  Hawksbury  was  the  northern  village  of 
Reade,  the  point  nearest  to  the  White  Quarries,  toward  which, 
in  the  years  of  the  stone-working,  its  growth  had  spread.  There 
were  sharp,  stirring  men  there.  Reade  was  a  business  town,  the 
provincial  centre ;  there  was  capital  there,  and  enterprise ;  it 
kept  up  a  live  connection  with  the  great  world  of  stocks  and 
interests. 

"  Nothing  better,  after  all,"  the  squire  had  said,  "  than  good, 
paying  first  mortgages.  Can't  melt  down  nor  run  away.  Same 
time,  I  've  got  a  good  many  of  'em  and  things  are  stirriug.  Any 
spare  cash  on  hand,  Deacon,  you  'd  like  to  put  into  a  good  note 
and  security  1  I  might  pass  one  over  to  you,  if  you  would." 

"Sech  as?"  inquired  the  deacon,  adding,  reservedly,  "sup- 
posin'  1 " 

"  Well,  there's  one  on  that  new  block  of  Liscomb's.  Lets 
out  first  rate,  you  know,  and  interest  sure ;  or  perhaps  that 's 
too  big,  —  four  thousand.  I  've  got  one  on  a  couple  of  town  lots, 
them  of  Schatter's,  jest  round  from  the  Baptist  Church,  on  West 
Row,  seven  per  cent,  —  twenty-five  hundred  ;  neat  little  pattern 
for  you  'n  me  both.  I  don't  care  about  taking  in  more  'n  that, 
at  present." 

"  Have  n't  you  got  something  on  Hey  brook's  farm  1 " 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course.  But  those  boys  are  working  to  take  it 
up.  It  '11  begin  to  come  in  next  quarter,  should  n't  wonder." 

"  I  might  like  t'  see  about  that,  ef  I  could.  That 's  all  in 
the  fam'ly." 

The  squire  demurred. 

"  I  've  alwers  calc'lated  t'  help  Welcome  out  o'  that  some- 


CASH   AND   INVESTMENT.  341 

time,"  the  deacon  resumed  thoughtfully,  "  ef  I  was  spared  an' 
prospered.  But  I  've  never  see  the  day  that  I  could  do  much 
about  it,  right  out.  I  've  bed  things  draggin'  on  me.  Ef  I 
could  take  hold  an'  buy  it  up,  now,  o'  you,  an'  the  int'rest  kep' 
on  comin'  roun'  t'  me  f'r  a  while,  —  well,  gradooal,  you  see,  I 
might  work  it,  an'  I  sh  'd  hev  my  hand  on  it.  I  could  kinder 
hand  it  in  most  any  minute,  'cord'u'  to  circumstahnces,  or  make 
sure  that  't  wa'n't  a  hole  in  Welcome's  share  —  or  the  boys'  — 
after  my  time.  I  ain't  got  no  children  y'  know." 

The  squire  looked  at  the  deacon  keenly.  "  What 's  the  kink 
there,  I  wonder  1 "  he  said  to  himself. 

"  Don't  exactly  care  about  transferring  that,"  he  returned, 
somewhat  shortly,  keeping  his  searching  look  on  Ambrose's 
face  as  if  to  watch  the  test,  and  see  how  deep  the  idea  lay  with 
him.  But  Ambrose  Newell  was  as  wooden  as  the  big  chopping- 
log  in  his  own  chip-yard,  and  as  hard  to  move. 

"  I  ain't  petickler,  nuther,"  he  remarked  stolidly.  "  I  like 
things  that 's  cash  or  investments,  ary  one,  'cordin'  as  y'  hev 
occasion.  I  ain't  in  a  hurry  to  tie  anything  up  yet ;  can't  lay 
by  s'  fast  but  what  I  know  p'utty  well  what  to  do  with  it.  But 
ef  I  was  to  buy  up,  that 's  all  I  was  a  sayin',  —  well,  I  would  n't 
want  it  no  further  off,  nor  no  differ' nt,  than  jest  that  ol'  li'bilityo* 
Welcome's.  I  kinder  hed  turned  it  over  in  my  mind  that  I 
might  take  hold  of  it  that  way.  But  't  ain't  no  matter." 

"  If  he  had  stopped  at  the  first  sentence,"  thought  Squire 
Puttenham,  carefully  balancing,  "  it  might  have  looked  like 
the  upshot.  But  he  wants  it.  It 's  what  he  came  for.  And 
there  's  a  kink  to  it." 

It  was  plain,  anyway,  that  the  deacon  would  put  his  cash 
into  nothing  else.  And  the  squire  wanted  just  about  three 
thousand  dollars  to  change  into  some  new  stocks  that  Flynton 
Steele  had  dazzled  him  with. 

Flynton  Steele  was  a  man  of  half  the  squire's  age,  and  he 
was  full  of  the  affairs  and  chances  of  the  day.  The  two  had 
had  their  heads  much  together  of  late.  The  squire,  with  his 
rusty,  old-fashioned  business  habits,  but  an  eager  outlook  on 
the  brilliant  rush  and  movement  of  a  time  too  young  and  shifty 
for  him  to  keep  personal  pace  with,  was  with  the  man  of  active 


342  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

operation  as  an  old  lady,  half  slipped  from  her  dear  life  of 
dress  and  fashion,  is  with  the  younger  one  who  can  always  come 
and  tell  her  what  everybody  is  wearing,  and  just  how  to  cut 
her  new  gowns,  or  make  over  her  old  ones  to  most  magnificent 
advantage. 

And  Flynton  Steele  happened  also  to  be  Care'line  Newell's 
double  cousin,  once  removed ;  her  very  next  of  kin,  after  her 
mother. 

We  hear  much,  in  a  moral  way,  of  the  subtile  interlacings  and 
complications  of  human  motive,  act,  and  influence.  Here  in 
Hawksbury  was  a  sufficiently  neat  illustration  of  it,  in  a  nice  little 
cobweb  pattern  that  is  small  enough  to  be  easily  and  entirely 
traced.  And  Flynton  Steele  was  as  a  brisk,  athletic  spider  in 
the  middle  of  it. 

He  had  a  line  that  ran  in  among  Squire  Puttenham's  plans 
and  good  solid  mortgages ;  and  another,  —  longer,  slighter, 
more  swaying,  more  dependent  on  contingency,  —  that  reached 
out  to  East  Hollow  Farm,  and  caught  there  to  he  was  scarcely 
sure  what,  in  a  dusky,  half-explored  corner. 

He  fraternized  and  advised  with  both  these  men,  the  squire 
and  the  deacon  ;  so  he  did  with  a  good  many  others.  He  had 
got  hold,  in  a  limited  way,  of  the  ideas  and  links  of  things  that 
were  making  the  fresh  excitements  of  the  great  markets ;  and 
had  managed  to  connect  himself,  usefully,  with  certain  handlers 
and  manipulators  of  shares  and  values  down  there  in  the  city, 
•where  he  spent  now  some  days  of  every  week. 

There  were  nice  little  hoards  of  good,  honest  money  around 
here,  in  a  region  where  men  were  still  somewhat  easy  in  believ 
ing  what  was  told  them.  He  had  worked  up  some  very  pretty 
little  percentages,  both  for  himself  and  for  some  of  these  other 
people  ;  for  although  there  were  chances  in  all  business,  as  he 
reminded  his  friends,  and  every  venture  might  not  tell  in  the 
right  direction,  still  there  must  be  enough  tickling  of  profits  to 
keep  up  his  influence  and  opportunity  ;  and  many  a  sale  of  far- 
off  Nevada  or  Colorado  shares,  that  would  help,  in  the  brokers' 
bulletins,  toward  the  lively  general  impression  desired  at  the 
moment  concerning  them,  and  many  a  shrewd,  quiet  by-con 
veyance  of  the  same,  managed  by  him,  worked  over  against 


CASH   AND   INVESTMENT.  343 

each  other  at  once  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  men  who  backed 
his  activities  with  a  certain  base  of  operating  funds,  —  for  his 
own  commissions,  —  and  for  the  little  speculations,  which  his 
passing  knowledge  of  how  these  or  those  rates  were  for  the  time 
being  bound  to  rule,  enabled  him  to  carry  out.  This,  at  least, 
is  as  far  as  I  understand  about  it ;  what  I  have  to  do  with  is 
merely  his  relation  to  the  direct  interest  of  our  story,  and  the 
fact  of  the  curious  play  and  connection  of  things  that  has  been 
spoken  of. 

The  deacon  and  the  squire  never  knew  that  they  were  in 
Steele's  cobweb  :  they  thought  they  were  spinning  their  own 
lines,  and  so  they  were ;  for  it  is  exactly  thus  these  interlacing 
meshes  are  made ;  everybody's  little  purpose  runs  its  own  way, 
only  here  and  there,  finding  the  perhaps  unfastened  intersec 
tions,  some  shrewd  Araneid  crosses  and  catches  his  thread 
where  it  may  make  an  assured  and  busy  centre  for  himself. 

Mr.  Flynton  Steele  usually  began  the  subject  with  the 
squire  ;  it  was  certain  to  work  about  to  the  deacon  ;  and  then 
the  deacon  was  as  certain  to  work  about  with  the  idea  so  sug 
gested  to  himself.  Mr.  Steele  did  not  care  to  put  himself  for 
ward  openly  and  voluntarily  to  the  knowledge  or  handling  of 
Ambrose  Newell's  affairs  :  he  answered  his  questions  ;  he  gave 
him  what  he  asked  for  ;  and  he  meant  sincere!}7  enough  to 
counsel  or  conduct  for  the  old  gentleman's  direct  profit  and 
benefit,  according  to  the  Golden  Rule,  —  which  operated  here 
as  a  plain  statement  of  act  and  result ;  doing  for  the  deacon 
being  precisely  the  doing  by  that  same  means  as  he  would 
himself  some  day,  be  done  by,  if  the  "times  came  rotmd." 

The  deacon  had  got  fired  up  about  those  Nevada  shares  ;  but 
he  did  not  talk  that  way  about  them  to  the  squire;  he  only 
listened,  with  eyes  a  little  wider  than  he  was  aware,  to  what 
the  latter  let  fall  as  hearsay,  and  with  the  wise  distrust  that  is 
so  apt  to  be  a  secret,  hankering  credence  ;  adducing  what 
"  they  said  "  in  ostensible  contrast  to  a  sounder  common  sense. 
All  the  while  that  the  squire  was  quoting  wild  speculating 
rumors  in  comparison  with,  and  as  argument  of  preference  for, 
his  own,  old-fashioned,  slow-and-sure  methods  and  "  paying 
first  mortgages,"  he  was  moving  cautiously  and  covertly,  and 


344  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

seeking  to  move  the  deacon  collaterally,  toward  a  transference 
of  some  of  his  closely  secured  funds  in  that  very  same  hazard 
ous  direction. 

They  were  upon  a  small  scale,  in  a  mere  corner;  but  they 
were  working  by  the  same  bad,  strange  law  that  has  got  hold 
of  men  everywhere  ;  that  will  hardly  let  any  purpose  come  face 
to  face,  right  out,  with  any  other.  Is  this  odd  machine,  —  this 
world  that  labors  so  with  the  crooked  indirections  of  its  multi 
plying  powers,  —  ever  to  come  simple  again,  and,  keeping  its 
growth  of  wisdom  and  appliance,  work  straight  and  even? 
How  can  we  look  for  it,  while  it  counts  and  works  by  separate, 
covetous,  distrustful  ones,  and  ever  less  and  less  by  honest  twos 
and  generous  threes,  that  dare  to  gather  together  in  the  name 
of  a  Living  Truth  and  Love,  and  deal  with  each  other  eye  to 
eye  and  heart  to  heart  1 

Ambrose  Newell  bought  up  the  mortgage ;  he  paid  those 
three  thousand-dollar  bonds  in  exchange  for  it ;  then,  with  an 
easier  conscience  and  a  "livelier  hope"  he  went  and  put  the 
half  of  another  thousand  into  Flynton  Steele's  hands,  for  a 
week  or  two,  as  a  trial.  "  From  two  to  five  per  cent  a  week," 
was  what  Flynton  had  told  him  things  could  be  made  to  turn 
over,  by  such  persons  as  "knew  how." 

He  had  not  many  more  of  the  fresh,  crispy  papers ;  he  could 
not  have  paid  up  his  debt  to  Welcome  and  have  had  an  equal 
share  of  his  savings  to  himself;  that  was  what  he  had  been 
waiting  for ;  but  now  it  looked  as  if  there  might  be  ways  of 
stimulating,  as  it  were,  the  promises  ;  swifter  means  of  putting 
himself  in  the  way  of  "  being  prospered." 

If  those  boys  came  in  with  a  payment  on  the  mortgage,  —  the 
interest  and  possible  payments  were  still  to  be  collected  for  him 
by  Squire  Puttenham,  —  then  that  sum,  doubled  if  he  could 
double  it,  and  if  the  trial  investment  came  out  well,  should  go 
into  these  new  channels ;  and  if  he  could  make  things  grow  as 
Flynton  said  they  could  grow,  after  they  had  once  attained  a 
certain  size,  —  if  he  could  put  in,  by  and  by,  for  some  big  bite 
of  a  big  apple,  —  it  might  come  so  as  that  he  could  get  that 
whole  old  score,  back  interest  and  all,  off  his  mind  without  feel 
ing  it.  He  wanted  that  big  bite  first.  He  wanted  to  play  with 


CASH   AND   INVESTMENT.  345 

the  whole  bag  of  marbles  awhile,  before  he  paid  back  the  lot 
of  them  he  owed  that  would  so  shrink  it  down ;  and  yet  his 
magnanimous  avuncular  heart  warmed  itself  quite  suddenly  up 
with  the  reflection,  "  What  a  fust-rate  job  it  '11  be  to  'a  made  out 
for  them  air  boys  !  " 

I  don't  suppose  he  was  all  alone  in  the  fashion  of  his  living 
between  an  actual,  daily  wrong  and  a  sublime,  constantly 
intended  right.  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  such  altogether  odd 
thing  in  the  world  as  the  one  only  man  who  would  do  that. 

In  September,  then,  Israel  Heybrook  paid  up  five  hundred 
dollars  on  the  three-thousand-dollar  mortgage,  into  Squire  Put- 
tenham's  hands.  It  was  indorsed  on  the  note,  and  came  right 
round  with  it  to  Deacon  Newell  again.  Then  Deacon  Newell 
took  his  own  first  five  hundred,  that  had  come  back  to  him 
from  its  dove's  flight  with  an  olive-branch  of  some  twelve  per 
cent  gain  in  five  weeks,  put  the  interest  in  his  pocket-book,  and 
sent  forth  the  principal  with  Israel's  five  hundred,  to  buy  more 
marketing. 

This  time,  Flynton  put  him  into  a  "western  railroad  teter." 
Bee  Line  was  going  up  slowly  from  low  figures ;  Grand  Tangent 
was  softly  dropping  down.  Flynton  Steele  had  another  com 
parison.  "  'T  is  n't  so  much  which  cistern  looks  the  fullest ; 
the  question  is,  which  way  is  the  long  leg  of  the  siphon  ?  Grand 
Tangent's  drawing  off;  the  little  Bee  Line  '11  be  over  the  brim 
in  six  months." 

And  so  it  was  ;  and  in  that  time  six  hundred  more  of  Israel 
Heybrook's  was  in  it,  and  that  other  five  of  Uncle  Amb's  from 
the  fourth  bond,  and  the  odd  hundreds  of  makings  and  savings 
from  ventures  and  farm  profits,  and  a  fresh,  whole  thousand,  — 
the  last  that  had  been  in  the  big  wallet  the  day  of  the  storm. 

Three  or  four  times  that  winter,  Uncle  Amb  sat  at  his  desk, 
pen  in  hand,  dipping  it  and  letting  it  dry,  as  he  held  it  over 
the  mortgage  deed.  At  last,  one  day,  some  strong  angel  who 
would  not  suffer  him  to  drop  into  lowest  perdition,  grasped 
the  momentary  will  of  him,  and  with  the  half  voluntary  plunge 
into  act  —  as  it  may  have  seemed  to  himself  —  of  a  suicide, 
he  wrote  three  lines  across  it,  and  his  name. 

A  long,  hard  breath  came  as  he  finished,  and  "  There  !  that 


346  ODD,    OK   EVEN  ? 

much  can't  be  took  back ! "  escaped  him  in  an  undertone. 
Mother  Pemble  knew  some  deed  was  done ;  but  she  did  not 
even  dare  to  get  up  on  her  knees  in  bed,  to  try  if  she  could 
peer  over  and  discover  what  it  might  be  done  about. 

Only  half  done.  Would  it  stand,  "  if  anything  happened  "  ? 
It  must  be  witnessed  and  recorded.  Meanwhile,  it  went  back, 
with  its  three  lines  of  cancel  and  discharge,  into  the  old  secre 
tary  again. 

Some  souls  have  to  be  saved  by  inches. 

Mother  Pemble  kept  her  sentry,  —  if  you  don't  know  what  that 
originally  meant,  it  was  the  duty  of  the  man  set  to  look  after 
and  take  care  of  the  dirty  water  gathering  in  the  bilge  of  the 
vessel,  —  over  every  sign  and  movement,  silently,  in  these  days  ; 
carrying  on  such  history  as  she  could  from  watch  to  watch. 
She  could  only  hypothesize  ;  she  only  knew  that  there  was 
"  pussonal,"  in  one  shape  or  another,  in  the  old  desk,  and  that 
Ambrose  was  "  fixin'  things."  She  kept  on  with  her  counter 
fixing.  All  through  those  weeks  she  was  doing,  at  secret 
intervals,  with  her  door  latched,  some  new,  strange,  patient 
work,  —  work  with  a  thin,  flat  file,  rasping  monotonously  back 
and  forth,  upon  a  stubborn  little  bit  of  steel.  Slow  work,  long 
waiting. 

Some  souls,  also,  —  and  seemingly  to  their  relish,  —  are 
damned  by  inches. 

And  all  winter  long  the  shares  of  the  Bee  Line,  whose  certifi 
cates  lay  there  with  the  Heybrook  mortgage,  went  up  and  up, 
till  they  more  than  half  doubled  their  par  value.  "  Those  big 
fellows  from  the  Grand  Tangent  were  in  it.  It  was  pretty  near 
time  for  the  little  fellows  to  get  out  again,"  said  Flynton  Steele. 

Through  the  winter  Uncle  Amb  seemed  bright  and  strong, 
better,  since  the  steady  cold  had  set  in,  than  he  was  before  he 
had  that  summer  "  poor  spell."  He  drove  in  and  out  of 
Hawksbury,  and  boasted  that  he  was  "good  yit,  athout 
patchin'." 

Mother  Pemble  said  to  herself,  "  Thiz  a  kind  o'  smartness 
that  comes  jest  after  somethin's  gi'n  up.  Spells  o'  strong,  an' 
spells  o'  weak,  that's  the  way  it  toes  off;  and  thiz  a  piece  gone 
ev'ry  time.  See  how  't  '11  be,  come  spring." 


CASH   AND   INVESTMENT.  347 

Sarell,  too,  —  meanwhile  become  Mrs.  Bassett,  —  thought 
forecastingly  of  the  spring,  and  kept  her  faithful  eyes  open  clear, 
and  her  wise  mouth  close  shut.  Shut,  as  the  time  went  on,  upon 
a  half-changed  sense  of  things. 

Down  in  her  heart,  some  feeling  that  had  been  reached  by 
that  summer  sermon  of  the  "  midst,"  would  now  and  then  be 
conscious  of  a  pain.  "  It 's  sorrerful  t'  see,  in  two  old,  dyin' 
creeturs,"  she  would  pause  and  think.  "  If  they  could  only  be 
got  at,  now,  in  th'  room  o'  bein'  got  round,  —  but  they  've  got 
to  be  got  round,  whether  or  no.  I  wonder  —  only  I  've  no 
business,  I  ain't  pious,  —  if  that  ain't  jest  the  same  kind  o'  wish 
an'  worry  the  Lord  hes  t'  git  along  with  f 'r  ev'ry  one  on  us." 

All  this,  however,  just  now,  anticipates. 


348  ODD,   OR    EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"  WALKING   PRIDE." 

IT  was  decided  that  the  Everidges  should  not  at  once  take 
the  house  in  town.  The  wedding  was  fixed  to  be  in  November  : 
all  must  be  left  till  after  that,  and  then  it  would  be  late  in  the 
season  to  make  such  a  move.  They  might  decide  to  take  rooms 
after  Christmas,  but  the  whole  subject  was  put  by  for  the  pres 
ent.  All  things  were  merged  in  the  beautiful  confusion  of  clouds 
of  lace,  cataracts  of  shining  silks,  soft  heaps  of  delicate  woollen 
stuffs,  furs,  feathers,  velvets ;  the  glitter  of  colors,  the  scatter 
of  finishing  trifles,  gloves,  handkerchiefs,  embroideries,  lovely 
ties  and  fichus,  exquisite  slippers  and  marvels  of  hosiery  ;  over 
and  above  all  the  regular  parental  providings,  the  coming  in  of 
gifts, —  silver,  art-objects,  all  imaginable  luxuries  of  personal  and 
household  appointment,  toilet  elegances,  mirrors,  flagons,  sconces, 
bronzes  and  porcelains,  rugs  and  screens  ;  to  descend  to  partic 
ular  and  instance,  —  five  bannerets,  ten  fans,  sixteen  Japanese 
trays,  eight  brass  dragons,  seventy -two  Majolica  butter  plates. 

One  room  was  given  up  to  freight,  one  to  merchandise,  one 
to  machines  and  seamstresses  and  Paris  patterns ;  the  family 
was  absolutely  crowded  into  corners.  It  took  one  servant's 
time  to  receive  at  the  door  ;  another's  to  drive  about  with 
Euphemia's  gratitude,  done  up  in  scented,  monogrammed  sta 
tionery.  It  was  difficult  to  realize  that  there  was  anything  else 
•whatever  going  on  upon  the  small,  round  world.  It  was  still 
more  difficult  to  realize  that  it  was  all  about  Mr.  Sampson 
Kaynard,  or  that  he  would  ever  be  able  to  take  it  all,  bride 
included,  who  was  so  very  entangled  and  inaccessible  among  her 
preparations,  away. 

They  called  France  in  to  the  trying  on  of  the  wedding-dress. 
The  room  was  all  wedding-dress.  Her  sister  looked  at  her  from 


**  WALKING    PRIDE."  349 

a  far  environment  of  white  glory,  around  whose  verge  family 
and  attendants  were  carefully  hovering.  It  rippled  and  glittered 
and  flowed,  misty  with  lace,  frosted  with  silver-broidery,  orange 
garlands  falling  along  its  drifted  folds  like  flowers  of  snow  on 
snow,  orange  blossoms  crowning  the  head  and  clustering  upon 
the  bosom  about  which  the  slight  beginning  of  it  all  was  fitted, 
and  the  growing  splendor  thence  swept  down  and  away,  like  the 
shining  trail  of  a  comet  from  its  small,  distant  nucleus. 

France  stood  out  in  space,  by  the  doorway.  The  dressmaker 
and  the  sewing-girls  were  in  ecstasies.  To  have  got  all  that 
together,  and  to  have  fastened  it  with  any  sort  of  logic  to  one 
little  figure  of  a  woman,  was  their  triumph. 

"  Look  at  France's  eyebrows,  mamma !  "  cried  the  bride,  from 
over  the  border.  "  She  puts  it  all  into  them.  She  won't  say 
a  word." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  love — ly,  Miss  France  1 "  appealed  the 
dressmaker. 

"  It  is  a  lovely  —  glacier,"  said  France  slowly.  "  But  I  don't 
think  I  should  exactly  like  to  be  dressed  in  a  glacier.  It  will 
go  all  down  the  church  aisle,  Phemie.  And  how  will  you  turn 
round  ?  And  won't  it  make  Mr.  Kaynard's  coat-tails  look  very 
queer  1 " 

"  France  i  you  're  too  odd  to  live  ! " 

"  Phemie  !  "  expostulated  Mrs.  Everidge. 

"  To  live  in  Boston,  at  any  rate,"  amended  Euphemia. 

"  Nothing  is  too  odd  to  live  in  Boston,"  said  France  pleas 
antly,  "  and  you  're  beautiful,  Effie,  but  you  're  a  great  way  off." 

"  Come  round  then." 

France  went  round  and  kissed  her. 

"  Right  here,  where  you  really  are,  it  is  exquisite,"  she  said, 
"  but  it  ought  to  be  you,  and  not  a  river  of  white  satin.  Look 
at  your  two  little  feet  and  then  at  all  those  yards  !  Have  you 
tried  to  walk  1 " 

Effie  made  a  few  steps  forward  :  the  billows  of  satin  crawled ; 
they  clung  and  drew  back  upon  the  carpet.  The  dressmaker 
spread  out  the  hem.  "  It  is  so  stately  !  "  she  said.  "  And  up  the 
aisle,  —  I  '11  be  at  the  door  myself  to  draw  it  back  the  last  thing 
as  you  go  in,  —  to  the  wedding  march,  you  know  ;  why,  it 's 
the  whole  making  of  a  bride  !  " 


350  ODD,    OR    EVEN  ? 

France  remembered  Sarell  Gately  and  her  way  of  saying  it. 
"  To  walk  pride  in.  Don't  they  walk  pride  in  Boston  1 "  And 
she  still  wondered  what  there  would  seem  to  be  of  Mr.  Sampson 
Kaynard  beside  it  all. 

Very  much  what  there  might  be  of  Mr.  Hollis  Bassett  beside 
the  grass-green  silk. 

Truly  there  was  not  so  very  great  a  difference. 

Sarell  wrote  France  a  letter  to  tell  of  her  becoming  Sarell 
Bassett.  It  came  just  in  the  midst  of  the  more  elegant  present 
ment  of  the  same  human  experience. 

"  I  presume  youl  want  to  know  how  the  weddin  was  an  about 
pearin  out.  Mrs.  Heybrook  wanted  me  to  be  maried  thare,  but 
I  diddnt  seem  to  feel  as  if  it  wold  be  the  best.  So  twas  at 
Cerinthy  Jane's.  Come  to,  twas  past  over  prutty  simple. 
Cerinthy  Jane  coudnt  have  much  of  a  housefull,  count  of  its 
not  bein  much  of  a  house  and  thar  bein  the  baby.  I  did  alwers 
think  if  twas  ever  sos  that  I  shoud  be  maried,  I  d  have  a  weddin 
that  I  coud  remember  it  by.  But  you  hardley  ever  cary  out 
all  you  mean  to  in  this  world.  I  kinder  dropt  off  one  thing 
after  another  that  diddnt  seem  to  be  of  any  everlastiu  conser- 
quence  when  you  took  em  up  an  lookt  em  over  seperit,  but 
altogether  thayd  of  made  the  weddin,  though  the  mane  thing  is 
to  get  maried  to  be  sure,  an  I  mean  now  to  setle  down  on  that 
an  be  contentid. 

"  I  had  a  kind  of  stoncolord  tybet  turnin  on  the  blue,  polanay 
cut  in  tags  an  bound  with  blue,  an  a  blue  fethear  in  my  hat. 
That  was  to  travil  in.  We  was  maried  in  the  mornin  an  had 
cake  an  wine,  an  then  went  down  to  Creddles  Mills  on  the  stage 
an  took  the  cars  right  up  again  to  Reade.  We  had  dinner  at 
the  Podunk  House,  an  a  girl  that  tends  thare  used  to  live  over 
our  way  an  knew  me,  so  she  had  it  all  out  that  I  was  a  bride, 
an  the  people  in  the  parlor  (only  they  wasnt  thare  morn  one  at 
a  time)  looked  at  us  while  we  walked  up  an  down  on  the  bal- 
corny.  Thare  want  any  body  thare  but  an  old  gentleman  and 
his  wife,  that  seemed  to  be  passin  threw,  and  she  said  my  dear 
to  me  kinder  simpathyzin,  and  a  man  that  travils  with  siscors 
and  pocket-books  and  his  wife,  and  a  school  teacher  and  a  book- 
agent  that  tried  to  sell  us  a  parlor  table  ciclepedior,  and  Hollis  told 


"WALKING   PRIDE."  351 

him  we  haddent  got  our  parlor  table  yet.  And  no  lezhur  com 
pany  at  all  but  us,  so  we  was  full  as  conspickyeous  as  we  cared 
about  bein  considerin  the  sort  we  had  to  be  conspickyeous  to. 
But  of  course  that's  just  as  you  happen  to  hit  the  track  when 
you  start  out ;  you  cant  tellergraph  and  range  folks  if  you  was 
Nellie  Grant  or  Minnie  Sherman  themselves. 

"  We  kep  on  up  in  the  afternoon  train  to  North  Sudley  and 
round  home  next  day  with  a  hired  team  threw  Hawksberry.  It 
want  a  great  deal  of  a  journey,  and  you  wouldent  think  we 
could  of  spent  ten  dollars,  but  we  did,  and  that  was  as  fur  as 
we  anyways  calcerlated  to  go.  I  told  Hollis  it  was  right  round 
in  a  ring,  and  he  said  yes,  but  twas  a  weddin  ring,  and  that 
made  all  the  difference,  and  so  it  did.  Besides,  thare  was  Sun 
day  and  the  pearin  out  left  to  think  of.  I  did  have  a  green 
silk  after  all,  but  it  was  on  the  ollive  shade,  and  that  is  more 
genteel,  I  guess  youll  say.  And  the  gloves  are  a  perfick  match. 
I  had  to  get  an  extry  fethear,  which  is  pecock,  to  change  in 
my  hat  to  wear  with  it,  but  you  dont  ushilly  get  married  but 
once  in  this  world,  and  if  you  cant  have  an  extry  fethear  then 
I  dont  see  as  you  can  ever  rashonally  expect  to  anywhere. 

"  Hollis  looked  real  nice  and  stilysh,  and  if  it  hadent  been  for 
two  things  I  should  have  been  satisfied.  But  then  you  aint  to 
be  satisfied  in  this  life  I  suppose,  and  the  set  times  for  it  are 
dreadful  short  and  uncertin  about  makin  their  connecsions 
with  the  times  in  general.  One  thing  was,  Ive  alwers  said  in 
my  own  mind  that  Fellaiden  folks  wouldent  ever  see  me  figger- 
in  off  with  Hollis  Bassett  on  them  church  steps  ouless  twas 
once  for  all  as  Missis  Bassett.  And  lo  and  behold  thare  want 
scursely  a  soul  thare  to  know  when  I  did  figger.  It  was  a 
windy  day  and  too  thare  might  have  been  some  spite  in  it. 
But  anyway,  the  girls  that  used  to  stand  round  fast  enough  had 
all  gone  in  when  we  got  thare,  and  when  we  came  out  they 
staid  in  to  see  the  minister's  sister  that  had  just  come  of  all 
times  in  the  world  for  that  pertickler  Sunday.  Shes  a  perfick 
bewty,  and  she  had  on  a  black  silk  and  a  cream-colored  ribbin 
with  a  brown  edge  to  it  on  her  bunnet,  and  one  long  cream-col 
ored  rosebud  and  one  crimson  one  droppin  out  of  the  knott 
of  it  with  limber  stems  and  green  leaves,  that  looked  just 


352  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

picked,  and  some  kind  of  a  soft  shawl  with  every  kind  of  a 
soft  shady  collor  in  it,  and  a  face  that  thare  was  no  use  in 
anybody  else  peariu  out  the  same  six  months  with,  and  that 
was  the  other  thing.  And  I  told  Hollis  ridin  home  that  it  was 
no  use,  as  long  as  the  sun  went  round  the  world  for  everybody, 
try  in  to  make  a  pertickler  day  for  yourself.  It  had  to  jibe 
on  to  everybody  elses  day  after  all.  For  my  part  I  was 
thankful  the  pertickler  one  was  over  now  and  wed  come  to 
settle  down  to  everyday.  To  that  he  said  every  day  was  per 
tickler  enough  for  him  now,  and  he  was  thankful  for  every  per 
tickler  day,  and  that  was  jest  what  he  set  out  to  be,  and 
expected  to  keep  on  bein,  which  I  thought  was  pearin  out  bright 
and  kind  for  Hollis  whatever  else  made  a  shine  or  diddent. 
And  I  recklected  what  you  said  that  day  about  walkin  pride  in 
your  heart.  But  I  had  to  hector  him  a  little  too  jest  because  I 
was  so  pleased.  Every  day  on  the  farm,  for  stiddy  work  you 
know  Hollis,  and  keepin  round  sharp  after  Uncle  Arab  and 
Mother  Pemble,  and  carryin  Careline  on  our  backs.  And  says 
Hollis,  what  if  weve  gone  and  tied  ourselves  down  to  East  Holler, 
and  shes  all  certin  true  after  all,  and  got  to  be  waited  on  incessunt, 
and  Deacon  Amb  dooes  live  on  till  hes  ninety-nine  and  a  week  1 
What  iff  says  I.  What  if — the  cow  should  eat  up  the  grin- 
ston  1  which  no  mortal  cow  ever  did  yet,  all  in  one  peace  at 
any  rate. 

"  Ive  told  you  all  my  nuse  now.  Thare  may  be  more  some 
time.  If  you  want  me  to  and  say  so,  111  let  you  know  as  the 
times  comes  round. 

"  So  I  remain  youres  affecksionetly, 

"SARAH  ELLA  BASSETT." 

France  told  Phil,  whom  she  saw  often  now,  about  Mrs.  Bas- 
sett's  letter,  and  received  in  return,  as  she  had  a  subtle  sense 
she  should  do,  his  last  news  from  Fellaiden.  Mrs.  Fargood 
wrote  quite  full  of  news ;  of  the  "  'pearin'  out,"  and  how  well  the 
bride  had  looked  in  her  olive  green ;  quite  shy  and  modest,  too, 
without  any  seeming  as  if  she  thought  she  was  the  whole 
chnrchgoing  that  day,  —  psalm,  sermon,  and  benediction,  —  as 
most  brides  did.  If  Sarell  could  have  known  that  her  quench- 


"  WALKING   PRIDE."  353 

ing  was  but  lighting  her  up  !  But  one  sees  that  the  grace  of  our 
quenchings  is  just  that  we  can't  know. 

The  doctor's  wife  told  also  of  Miss  Kingsworth's  coming,  and 
that  she  was  going  to  make  her  home  with  her  brother,  and 
that  it  was  brightening  him  up  wonderfully.  "  Though  if  you 
can't  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  forth  about  one  thing  more 
certainly  than  another,"  the  good  woman  added,  "  it 's  about  a 
girl  as  pretty  as  that  making  a  settled  home  anywhere  for  any 
body  but  a  husband.  She  has  come  right  into  the  works,  had  a 
class  in  Sunday-school  the  first  Sunday,  and  rode  round  all  day 
Monday  with  Mr.  Kingsworth  making  parish  calls,  not  waiting  for 
the  folks  to  come  and  see  her,  which  I  call  friendly  and  clever, 
whether  it 's  genteel  or  not.  I  guess  she  means  exactly  not  to  be 
genteel,  or  give  anybody  time  to  set  her  off  separate.  Mr. 
Kingsworth  has  begun  with  his  librery.  He  's  taken  the  old 
schoolhouse  for  it,  and  put  in  Hiram  Goodsum  for  librarian  and 
carrier.  The  selectmen  think  well  of  it,  and  it 's  thought  that 
next  town-meeting  there  '11  be  a  vote  carried  to  .appropriate 
something,  and  make  it  a  town  affair,  and  pay  Hiram  some 
salary.  There  's  nothing  starts  up  a  town  like  having  some 
man  start  up  in  it  with  a  shoulder  for  every  good  wheel.  And 
as  Mr.  Kingsworth  says,  he  may  n't  live,  or  always  be  here,  and 
a  town  ought  to  adopt  whatever  is  worth  while  for  it,  and  make 
sure  of  its  being  carried  along.  Sounds  well  for  him,  when  he 's 
put  in  five  hundred  dollars  to  it,  to  start  off  with.  It  '11  run  on 
that  for  some  time.  But  Fellaiden's  mighty  tickled  to  get  a 
town  library  just  by  voting  it  in  and  agreeing  to  raise  not  less 
than  fifty  dollars  a  year  for  it  for  the  next  five  years.  Hiram  is 
in  his  element.  He  was  always  hankering  wild  after  books,  and 
now  he  's  turned  in  to  pasture  in  a  ten-acre  mowing.  Mr. 
Kingsworth  and  Miss  Leonora  and  Israel  Hey  brook  have  been 
up  there  two  days,  ranging  the  books,  and  now  they  're  making 
out  the  catalogue." 

After  this,  the  letter  passed  to  items  of  sickness  and  health, 
of  household  doings  and  changes,  of  fall  butter  sales  and  thanks 
giving  turkeys,  and  ceased  to  be  interesting. 

France  walked  up  the  hill  from  the  train,  in  which  she  had 
met  young  Merriweather,  wondering  what  had  made  her  so 

23 


354  ODD,   OK   EVEN? 

vaguely  uncomfortable.  The  next  day  she  went  into  town 
again,  on  purpose  to  call  on  Miss  Ammah  at  the  Berkeley. 

Miss  Ammah  did  not  comfort  her  the  least  bit  in  the  world, 
somehow,  although  she  did  not  know  what  definite  comfort  she 
was  looking  for,  or  that  she  needed  any. 

"  People  find  their  places ;  and  there  's  always  a  like  for  a 
like,"  Miss  Ammah  said.  "  The  good  Lord  does  n't  leave  any 
of  us  to  quite  starve  out.  There  's  always  manna,  and  some 
times  quails,  in  every  desert.  I  'm  glad  they  're  going  to  have 
such  a  nice  winter  up  there." 

"  Up  there  "  seemed  poles  away  from  where  France  found 
herself,  set  back  in  her  old  surroundings,  with  all  outward  hold 
and  tie  broken  from  that  one  chance  placing  and  relation  of  the 
short  summer.  She  had  not  realized  how  this  would  be. 

And  yet  the  trains  ran  every  day  their  four  hours'  trip  up 
toward  the  hills,  and  the  Creddles  Mills  stage  and  the  farm 
ers'  wagons,  went  back  and  forth  between  there  and  Fellai- 
den.  The  depots,  "  Maine,  Eastern,  Fitchburg,"  stared  her  in. 
the  face  from  under  the  roofs  of  the  gay  street-cars,  as  she  went 
up  and  down  among  the  shops.  There  was  a  straight  line 
enough ;  but  what  was  ever  going  to  take  her  over  it  again,  or 
bring  anybody  down  from  thence  ] 

Miss  Ammah  said  something  about  her  house.  "  I  may  have 
to  run  up  there  before  spring,"  she  told  the  girl.  And  that 
was  simply  a  fine  exasperation,  —  as  fine  as  the  prick  of  a  cam 
bric  needle  upon  a  fresh-smarting  surface. 

France  sat  perfectly  silent,  thinking  of  the  snows  upon  the 
long  slopes,  that  she  had  so  wanted  to  see ;  and  of  the  glitter  of 
great  icy  tree-tops  in  the  climbing  sun. 

Miss  Ammah  glanced  at  her  furtively,  and  cruelly  changed 
the  subject,  upon  which,  after  the  smallest  decent  interval, 
France  Everidge  rose  and  went  away. 


HOBGOBLINS.  355 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

HOBGOBLINS. 

SARELL  was  setting  up  her  empire  at  East  Hollow. 

She  was  fully  instated  now  as  housewife.  She  and  Hollis  had 
the  little  end  room  beyond  the  buttery,  and  the  sloping  corner 
attic  over  it  in  the  long  roof.  The  kitchen  itself  passed  under 
her  sole  regulation,  and  in  this  she  worked  changes  with  a  free 
hand,  bringing  it  to  an  expression  of  herself  which  was  far 
enough  from  any  look  it  had  worn  in  Care'line's  nominal  rule. 

"  If  I  'm  to  content  myself  down  and  stay"  she  said,  "  I  must 
fix  matters  to  look  like  it.  There  's  certin  things  I  must  do 
someu'heres,  you  see,  or  I  might  as  well  be  Sarell  Gately,  chorin' 
round,  as  Missis  Bassett."  And  Care'line  passively  assented 
to  whatever  did  not  disturb  her  and  her  rocking-chair. 

"Git  me  a  pot  o'  Venishian  red,"  Sarell  said  to  Hollis, 
"  an'  some  vermilyun." 

The  tall  dresser-shelves,  that  reared  up  in  homely  stateliness 
from  table  beneath  to  ceiling  above,  soon  took  on,  under  her 
touch,  a  warm,  heavy  tint ;  and  the  sparkling  tins  made  fine 
array  against  the  dull,  deep  color.  The  chimney-bricks,  back 
of  the  lustrous  stove,  and  up  under  the  high  brown  mantel, 
were  put  in  corresponding  hue ;  and  the  broad  hearth  beneath 
glowed  with  scarlet,  freshly  laid  on,  from  week  to  week  in 
whatever  touches  were  needed,  with  the  vermilion  powder, 
mixed  in  milk  and  molasses,  that  made  it  shine  as  with  a 
varnish. 

The  splint-bottomed  armchair,  with  its  tall-barred  back,  was 
also  in  vermilion,  properly  prepared  as  paint,  with  oil  and  tur 
pentine  ;  and  this  stood  back  so  that  the  dark  shade  of  the 
dresser  threw  out  the  lines  in  cheerful  relief.  The  floor  was 
already  of  the  solid,  time-honored,  deep  yellow.  Sarell  was 


356  ODD,   OE   EVEN? 

artistic  without  knowing  it.  If  she  had  come  down  to  Boston 
and  its  neighborhoods  at  this  time,  where  one  touch  of  paint-pot 
made  the  whole  world  kin,  she  would  have  found  that  she  had 
put  herself  in  precisely  the  last  reach  and  demonstration  of  re 
finement,  where  at  the  primitive  point  in  the  cycle  of  the  color- 
passion,  savagery  and  study  meet. 

She  sat  down  beatified,  in  her  first  completed  splendors. 

"You  don'  know,"  she  said,  "the  comfort  them  red  shelves 
is,  every  time  I  look  at  'em." 

Hollis  looked  at  the  bright  cheeks  and  the  blue  shine  of  the 
eyes  and  the  toss  of  the  deep  gold  hair,  and  satisfied  his  eyes 
also  as  to  the  harmonies  of  the  original  principles  of  refracted 
lights. 

"  Y'  don't  half  see,"  said  Sarell  taking  in  herself  every  de 
tail,  knowing,  like  any  artist,  where  every  touch  had  been  and 
why,  and  avaricious  that  her  public  should  discern  it  in  particu 
lar  also. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Hollis,  sending  his  eyes  round  vaguely,  and 
snatching  them  back  again  to  her  face.  "  The  desert 's  begin- 
nin'  t'  blossom,  an'  t'  smile." 

"  Out  of  one  corner  of  its  mouth,"  said  Sarell.  "  But  it 's  our 
corner.  Order  reigns  —  in  that  much  of  Warsaw."  Not  know 
ing  anything  about  Warsaw,  or  the  order,  or  how  or  why  or 
when  it  reigned. 

"  Never  rains,  with  you,  but  it  pours,  Sarell,"  said  Hollis,  his 
look  following  her  as  she  shot  across  to  the  dresser  to  arrange 
more  exactly  the  interval  of  space  between  two  gleaming  tin 
coffee-pots,  and  slant  their  noses  and  handles  more  precisely 
parallel.  "  I  can't  see  as  you  've  left  a  blessed  thing  to  do 
anywheres." 

"  No ;  nor  you  won't  see  it  any  more.  That 's  the  eyesight 
of  a  man.  Things  '11  shine  all  winter,  that 's  all  you  '11  know  ; 
an'  you  '11  persume  they  've  kep'  on." 

"  All  I  want 's  t'  hev  things  keep  on,"  said  the  satisfied  Bene 
dict  ;  and  T  think  a  little  spiritual  glimpse  of  what  wifehood, 
and  the  moral  shining,  in  a  man's  eyesight,  has  to  be  for  a 
woman,  came  to  Sarell  at  the  moment.  "  A  tug  an'  a  scrub, 
an'  t'  hev  it  look  as  ef  it  come  so,  an'  kep'.  Well,  I  've  set  out 


HOBGOBLINS.  357 

for 't,  an'  please  the  Lord,  I  '11  see  it  thriew.     '  Walkin'  pride 
in  your  heart,'  —  it 's  a  good  go-by,"  she  said  to  herself. 

This  was  November.  The  snow  kept  off  late  this  year,  and 
they  were  having  beautiful  weather,  —  beautiful  for  the  husk 
ing,  and  the  getting  in  of  the  roots,  and  for  the  chopping  of  the 
firewood  out  in  the  open  chip-yard.  While  Sarell  put  on  her 
gay  winter  colors  in  the  kitchen,  adorning  with  substantial 
brightness  her  own  especial  and  clear  domain,  and  even  straight 
ening  and  freshening  here  and  there  about  the  fixed  Care'liue 
in  the  keeping-room,  Hollis  heaped  up  the  golden  treasury  of 
the  corn-barns,  and  split  and  piled  great  walls  of  hearty  oak  and 
beech  and  maple  and  fat  pine  in  the  long  shed-room  ;  leaving 
the  huge,  knotty  maple  "  chunks  "  in  grand  supply  for  holding 
the  long  fires,  twenty-four  hours  round,  in  the  capacious  keep 
ing-room  stove  and  in  Mother  Pemble's  bedroom. 

Mother  Pemble  heard  the  busy  strokes,  and  the  flying  of  the 
meteoric  chips  out  there  before  her  north  window ;  and  of 
course  she  smelled  the  paint ;  and  with  acute  ears  and  nose, 
and  questioning  tongue,  she  kept  the  run  of  all  the  regular 
work  and  most  of  the  innovating  improvements. 

"  So  the  ol'  dresser 's  done  over  niew,"  she  said ;  "  an'  the  big 
cheer,  you  told  me,  an'  what  else  ]  Seems  to  me  it 's  wonderful 
times ;  '  turrible  times  in  the  Jarseys,'  "  she  quoted,  from  the 
old  Revolutionary  sayings  passed  on  into  home  by-words  and 
handed  down  to  the  second  and  third  generations.  "  I  don't 
see,"  she  added,  one  day,  "  what  need  ther'  was,  though,  fer  all 
them  niew  —  "  and  there  she  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Niew  what  ] "  Sarell  demanded  as  suddenly,  stopping  with 
something  in  her  hand  at  the  door. 

"  Land  knows  what ! "  the  old  lady  answered,  vaguely  and 
pettishly;  but  the  tone  of  her  beginning  had  been  quite  to 
some  specific  purpose.  "Tinkerin'  an'  hammerin'!  night  an' 
day,  p'utty  near.  Rivers  or  curtins  or  carpits  or  all  three,  I 
persume !  I  ain't  let  into  everything,  layin'  here." 

Which  Sarell  had  been  quite  carefully  aware  of,  and  espe 
cially  as  to  the  putting  up  of  the  fresh,  cheap  blue  Holland 
shades  to  the  three  keeping-room  windows,  in  place  of  the  old, 
curled,  crackled,  dusty  paper  ones.  Care'line  herself  had  said, 


358  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

regarding  the  unusual  expenditure,  "  It  '11  be  just  as  well,  I 
guess,  not  to  name  it  to  ma." 

"  I  ketch  a  word  now  an'  agin,  ef  I  can't  git  it  out  dereck. 
Measurins  an'  rus'lins,  too,  an'  steppins  up  an'  down.  Y' 
need  n't  think  I  'm  deef  or  a  fool.  I  c'n  place  things.  I  know 
the  ol'  terrortory  by  heart." 

Sarell  never  answered  a  syllable.  But  she  told  Hollis  that 
night,  in  a  whisper,  in  the  far  privacy  of  their  own  apartment, 
that  "  if  the  house  got  afire  before  mornin'  he  'd  have  to  look 
out  for  the  old  lady.  F'r  I  've  tied  up  the  knob  of  the  door  to 
the  handle  of  the  press  clussit,"  she  continued,  when  he  did  not 
at  first  respond. 

"What's  that  fur]"  Hollis  then  naturally  inquired. 

"T"  keep  the  cat  out  o'  the  clussit,"  his  wife  replied. 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Sarell  softly  loosed  the  cord 
and  put  it  in  her  pocket.  An  hour  after,  when  she  took  in 
Mother  Pemble's  breakfast,  the  two  women  gave  each  the  other 
one  sharp  glance,  which  had  not  the  movement  of  an  eyelid  in 
it,  nor  was  the  fortieth  part  of  a  second  long,  and  which  each 
barely  detected  in  the  other,  thinking  her  own  bearing  to  be 
scrupulously  and  precisely  as  in  common.  But  the  one  knew 
that  she  was  watched,  and  the  other  was  satisfied  with  her 
experiment. 

It  was  scarcely  a  week  after  that,  when  Dr.  Fargood  stopped 
his  sulky  out  by  the  fence  when  Hollis  was  chopping  in  the 
chip-yard. 

"  Fine  morning,"  he  said.     "  Where  's  your  big  dog? " 

"  Big  doarg  1  Hain't  got  any.  A  big  doarg  !  "  he  repeated, 
laughing  between  and  after  the  emphasized  syllables,  with  that 
ejaculatory  merriment  which  takes  the  articulation  of  amazed 
disdain.  "Don't  you  know  the  deacon  better 'n  that,  doctor?" 
and  with  that  he  lowered  his  voice,  left  his  axe  sticking  in  the 
maple  chunk,  and  came  to  the  fence,  out  of  earshot  from  Mother 
Pemble's  north  window.  "  He  would  n't  keep  a  doarg  three 
inches  long,  f'r  fear  as  much  as  two  of 'em  would  be  stomach  !  " 

"  Well,  I  thought,"  said  the  doctor,  twinkling,  and  shaking 
his  shoulders,  "  that  it  could  n't  exactly  pay  in  any  capacity  as 
a  dog,  though  I  did  n't  know  what  else  it  could  be.  It  did  n't 


HOBGOBLINS.  359 

seem  to  have  any  bark.  It  sat  up  straight  on  the  doorstone 
there,  as  I  drove  up  sharp  from  the  Corner,  and  before  I  got 
near  enough  to  make  it  fairly  out,  or  it  me,  it  dropped  down 
on  all  fours  and  sneaked  off  behind  the  porch  and  the  jog  of 
the  house.  It  puzzled  me  a  good  deal.  It  could  n't  have  been 
a  calf  or  a  cosset ;  for  neither  of  those  animals  sits  on  its 
haunches  that  I  know  of;  and  I'm  pretty  sure  it  wasn't  a 
bear." 

"  What  'r  ye  talkiu'  about,  doctor  ]  When  was  it  all  1  What 
d'  ye  mean  ] "  asked  Hollis,  bewildered ;  for  the  doctor  was  a 
man  of  fun  as  much  as  of  physic. 

"  It  was  night  before  last ;  past  one  in  the  morning,  yester 
day,  rather.  I  was  coming  round  to  the  Centre  this  way,  and 
turned  off  up  here  from  the  meadow  road.  Pleasant  night, 
too.  Wonderful  weather  for  this  time  of  year  !  " 

But  Hollis  was  not  attending  to  the  last  words.  "  On  the 
doorstun?"  he  said,  putting  his  foot  up  on  the  fence-bar,  and 
scratching  his  head,  with  his  elbow  on  his  knee  for  a  purchase. 
"  I  'm  clear  catterwampussed  ! " 

The  doctor  laughed.  "  Things  look  queer  in  the  night,"  he 
said.  "I  see  a  good  many  hobgoblins.  That  was  the  last 
one." 

Hollis's  hat,  displaced  by  his  knuckles,  tilted  down  over  his 
forehead.  He  stood  upright  and  shook  it  on  again,  as  the 
doctor's  sulky  rattled  away,  beyond  the  reach  of  further  word. 
Doctors  learn  a  surprising  art  of  taking  themselves  off. 

Hollis  went  in  to  his  wife,  leaving  the  axe  sticking  in  the 
maple. 

Sarell  was  trying  out  soap-grease,  and  the  fat  smoke  choked 
him. 

"  Ugh,  ugh,  ugh  !  What  d'  ye  think  Doctor  Fargood  says, 
Sarell  1  Thought  we  kep'  a  biff  doarg  down  here.  Ha  !  ugh  !  A 
doarg  without  any  bark  to  him  —  Ugh  !  how  that  fat  seffercates 
a  feller !  See  him  sett'n  up  straight  in  the  middle  o'  the  night 
out  on  the  —  " 

Sarell  thrust  the  dripping-spoon  out  at  him  in  mid-air,  with 
a  gesture  of  imperative  command.  "  Hush  up  ! "  she  half 
whispered,  half  signalled,  with  emphatic  flash  and  set  of  white 


360  ODD,    OB   EVEN  ? 

teeth  and  widening  and  closure  of  red  lips,  her  brow  knitting, 
and  her  head  giving  a  little  spasmodic  shake. 

"  Psha  !  Nonsense  !  "  she  said  aloud.  "  There,  you  're  jest  in 
time  t'  lift  that  kittle  off." 

With  that,  and  accompanying  pantomime,  she  got  him  into 
the  shed-room,  and  shut  the  door.  "  Hollis  Bassett,"  she  said, 
"  you  're  as  innersunt  as  a  baa-lamb.  An'  I  like  you  fur  it. 
Only  it  won't  do  to  bla'  at  anything  in  this  house.  Don't  you 
so  much  as  tell  me  the  wind 's  east,  athout  lookin'  to  see  first 
that  the  doorcrack  's  close.  What  is  it  about  the  dog  on  the 
doorstone  ] " 

And  then  Hollis,  much  as  if  he  had  been  warned  of  nitro-gly- 
cerine,  and  then  set  to  handing  along  mysterious  vessels,  gave 
forth  his  words,  divested  of  all  natural  impulse,  in  a  scared, 
careful  way. 

Sarell  listened,  with  the  air  of  taking  in  circumstantial  evi 
dence.  "  All  right !  "  she  said  at  the  end.  "  Now  we  '11  drop 
the  subject.  An'  don't  ever  pick  it  up  agin,  Hollis,  with  the 
doctor  nor  nobody  else  ;  not  even  me,  'less  more  comes  of  it. 
An'  if  I  should  be  took  bad  with  a  toothache  in  the  night,  or, 
in  meetin',  say,  some  Sunday,  an*  hev  t'  come  out  in  sermon- 
time,  don't  you  take  no  notice,  nor  git  a  mite  anxious.  'T  won't 
be  nes'cery,  an'  —  wait  a  minute  ! " 

She  left  him,  and  disappeared  through  the  keeping-room ; 
looked  in  at  Mother  Pemble's  door,  which  she  found  unlatched, 
and  inquired  hastily  of  that  lady  if  she  had  seen  anything  of 
the  deacon;  then  returning,  " Now,"  she  said  to  Hollis,  "jest 
step  round  that  way  and  lock  the  parlor-porch  door  on  the 
outside,  and  fetch  the  key  to  me,  will  ye  ? " 

"What  furl"  asked  Hollis,  as  if  that  form  of  words  were  in 
variably  effectual  of  its  purpose. 

"  To  keep  the  dog  off  the  doorstone,"  Sarell  replied,  relevantly 
and  concisely. 

Hollis  accepted  the  statement,  or  what  it  covered,  and  his 
errand,  in  which  he  showed  —  and  Sarell  appreciated  it  —  not 
obtuseness  and  abjectness,  but  brightness  and  a  generous  sweet 
ness.  It  is  oftener  the  fact  with  the  henpecked  than  the  peck 
ers  are  aware.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  shed-place  and  around 


HOBGOBLINS.  861 

the  house  outside,  Sarell  made  her  way  again  to  Mother  Pem- 
ble's  room,  where  she  begau  to  rummage  in  a  cupboard. 

The  old  woman,  sitting  up  against  her  pillows,  knitting-work 
in  hand,  glowered  at  her  over  her  spectacles.  "  What  now  1 " 
she  demanded. 

"  Care'line's  pressboard,  —  the  narrer  one,"  returned  Sarell, 
knocking  the  door  with  her  elbow  back  against  the  wainscot, 
and  sending  a  tack-hammer  clattering  down  from  the  shelves. 
"  An'  't  ain't  here,  neither ;  not  as  I  see."  She  shoved  things 
back  and  forth  a  minute  longer,  replaced  the  iron  hammer,  with 
a  drop  of  its  claw  end  upon  the  hollow-sounding  board,  and 
closed  the  door  with  a  small  slam  to  fasten  the  slip-latch. 

Mother  Pemble  scrutinized  her  deliberately  through  all  these 
movements.  "  What 's  goin'  on  in  this  house,  for  all  that  racket 
to  kiver  up,  I  wanter  know  1 "  she  said.  "  I  c'n  see  thriew  a 
millstone,  Sarell  Bassett ! " 

"  Perticklerly  when  the  millstone  ain't  there,"  replied  Sarell, 
calm  with  the  consciousness  of  one  suspected  in  quite  a  wrong 
direction.  She  picked  up  a  bit  of  patchwork,  as  she  spoke,  that 
had  fallen  out  of  a  basket  in  the  cupboard,  and,  opening  the  lit 
tle  door  again,  returned  it  to  its  place.  "  We  c'n  all  do  that, 
Mis'  Pemble ;  or  when,"  she  added,  irresistibly  impelled,  "  the 
millstone 's  s'  near  home  't  we  c'n  put  our  eye  t'  the  shaft-hole 
athout  reachin'  or  strainin'.  Only,  in  that  case,  Mis'  Pemble,  ef 
ther  's  anything  grindiu'  we  must  look  out  fer  our  noses  !  " 

"Y*  need  n't  Mis'  Pemble  me  more'n's  perfectly  com f 'table 
'n  c'nvenient,  Mis'  Bassett,"  returned  the  old  lady,  resuming  her 
knitting-work,  and  speaking  with  external  imperturbability,  her 
eyes  still  directed  slantwise  at  Sarell  over  her  glasses.  "An'  y' 
need  n't  take  me  in  hand,  no  way.  /  ain't  a  fool,  as  I  've  ob 
served  t'  you  afore.  You  've  got  Hollis  t'  look  after,  an'  that 's 
enough,  though  't  won't  be,  by  a  half  a  dozen  o'  the  same  sort 
yet,  I  '11  ventur  t'  say  !  " 

Mrs.  Bassett  turned  round,  and  faced  the  sidewise  look 
squarely.  She  held  her  eyes  stone-still  upon  it,  even  as  it  with 
drew  and  dropped,  with  all  her  might  for  about  ten  seconds. 

"Miss-es  Pemble,"  then  she  said,  in  a  slow,  strong  monotone, 
that  had  such  a  tempest  in  it  as  low,  long  horizon  thunder  has, 
"  ef  you  was  up,  I  b'lieve  my  heart  I  sh'd  knock  you  down  !  " 


362  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

"'T  ain't  wuth  while,  Sarell,"  remarked  Hollis,  with  quiet 
drawl,  from  the  other  side  the  open  door,  whither  he  had  come 
round  in  pursuit  of  her  through  the  keeping-room.  "  I  notice, 
commonly,  that  when  a  person  needs  knocking  down  they  air- 
down.  Jess  let  'em  stay." 

The  husband  and  wife  went  off  together. 

Care'line  sat  in  the  keeping-room  by  the  big  table,  on  the  side 
next  the  passage  to  her  mother's  door,  —  her  usual  place,  within 
hearing.  Her  feet  were  up  in  a  chair ;  her  lap  was  full  of 
woollen  rags  that  she  was  cutting  for  Mrs.  Pemble's  rugwork. 
Quite  incapable  of  any  stir  in  her  own  nature,  she  looked  with 
simple  wonder  upon  other  people's  "breezes." 

"  You  ought  n't  to  mind  ma,  Sarell,"  she  said,  with  that  slow, 
open-mouthed  dwelling  of  hers  upon  the  vowels,  as  the  young 
woman  addressed  passed  through  beside  her,  with  a  red  spot  on 
either  cheek,  and  her  eyes  still  intense.  "  She 's  an  old  lady, 
an'  you've  alwers  hed  sech  a  real  good-natured  dispersishin." 

"You  could  spile  the  temper  of  a  flat-iron,  ef  you  kep'  it  on 
the  coals  the  clear  durin'  time,"  Sarell  returned,  going  straight 
on  into  her  kitchen. 

Moved  by  a  mild  sense  of  some  anxiety  that  might  come, 
Care'line,  an  hour  later;  carrying  in  a  basket  full  of  her  cut  rags 
to  Mrs.  Pemble,  said  smoothly,  "  I  don't  think,  ma,  Sarell  means 
anything  by  her  talk,  an'  I  would  n't  notice  if  I  was  you.  She 's 
a  real  good  care-taker,  but  then  she 's  spunky,  too ;  an'  't  would 
be  bad  now,  you  see,  if  she  and  Hollis  was  to  take  affront. 
There  warn't  the  least  thing  done  in  the  house  that  you  mis 
trusted.  What  could  be  done,  with  me  settin'  there,  you 
know  ? " 

"  You  ?  Anything !  "  answered  the  old  woman.  "  'Z  long 's 
they  did  n't  tumble  over  ye." 

When  Mother  Pemble  was  spiteful  to  Care'line  it  had  cer 
tainly  come  to  the  last  point  with  her.  She  felt  it  so  herself; 
the  very  "  revvet,"  as  she  sometimes  said  of  things,  "  was  out." 
What  was  there  for  her  to  hold  together  for,  except  her  love  — 
such  as  love  was  with  her  —  for  her  daughter  1 

When  Care'line  went  comfortably  and  composedly  from  the 
room,  "  taking  no  notice,"  and  too  phlegmatic  to  take  anything 


HOBGOBLINS.  363 

to  heart,  the  old  woman  dropped  her  arms  lengthwise  upon  the 
bedclothes,  as  if  in  some  vital  point  in  her  body  between  them 
the  rivet  had  fallen  out,  turned  her  face  away  upon  the  pillow, 
and  let  two  grieving  tears  run  slowly  out  of  her  eyes,  under  her 
spectacles,  upon  her  cheeks. 

But  she  was  all  alone.  Nobody  knew  that  Mother  Pemble 
ever  cried  —  even  those  two  tears. 

Was  it  a  thing  defiant  of  and  utterly  contradictory  to  those 
two  tears,  or  was  it  in  some  subtile  connection  with  their 
spring,  that,  fifteen  minutes  afterward,  Mother  Pemble's  latch 
was  down,  and  she,  with  a  smooth,  hard  face,  was  sitting  more 
upright  against  her  pillows  than  before,  doing  that  curious, 
slow  work  with  her  thin,  flat  file  and  the  bit  of  steel  at  whose 
ridged  end  she  rasped  so  steadily  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth] 

One  stormy  evening  later,  in  what  the  young  wife  called  the 
"  new-married  end  of  the  house,"  another  bit  of  talk  arose,  in 
this  wise. 

A  bright  fire  burned  in  the  round,  oven-like  fireplace  of  the 
buttery  room.  Sarell  sat  with  her  feet  comfortably  tilted 
against  the  raised  edge  of  the  brick  hearth,  whereon  Hollis  had 
drawn  forth  a  goodly  heap  of  live  coals,  and  over  them  was  pop 
ping  out  little  golden  nuggets  of  corn  into  white  roses. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  witches,  or  fetches,  Sarell  1 "  he  asked, 
suddenly. 

"  When  I  see  'em,"  Sarell  answered,  in  a  safe  ambiguity. 

"  Well,  that 's  it.  Do  you  believe  it  is  'em,  if  you  do  see 
'em  ]  Ther  's  curious  things  enough  —  " 

"  We  all  know  that,"  interrupted  Sarell.  "  Where  folks  stop, 
in  most  kinds  o'  b'lievin'  is  where  you  put  the  name  to  it. 
Why  1 " 

"  Because,  sittin'  here,  an'  what  Dr.  Fargood  said,  puts  me 
in  mind  of  a  circumstaance." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  It  was  last  summer  when  we  was  gittin'  in  hay  from  the 
overhill  piece.  We  men-folks  were  all  out  there,  an'  Elviry  an' 
Mrs.  Newell  was  gone  t'  the  S'ciety.  'Bout  an  hour  b'fore 
sundown  the  Deac'n  he  kinder  stops  an'  pushes  up  his  hat  an' 


364  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

looks  round  f  r  a  rest,  an'  he  sees  ol'  Poke-ahontas,  spite  of  her 
poke,  sidliu'  with  her  long  horns  at  the  pastur'  bars  lead'n'  into 
the  oat-field.  All  the  rest  of  the  drove  was  at  her  heels. 
'  Hurry  up,  Hollis,  after  them  cattle  !  '  he  says  sharp.  So  I 
started  'n  headed  'em  off,  'n  fixed  the  bars,  'n  turned  'em 
down  along  the  brook  to 'ads  home.  When  I  see  'em  safe  's  fur 
's  the  bridge,  I  came  up  over  the  knoll,  where  the  woodchucks' 
holes  is.  An'  ef  I  did  n't  see  three  of  'em,  settiu'  up  prim  as 
dishes,  'longside  o'  their  front  doors.  I  could  n't  stand  that,  so 
I  came  on  home  to  get  a  trap.  An'  the  minute  I  got  my  head 
over  the  gardin-ridge,  I  took  notice  that  the  high  door, 
out  o'  this  room,  where  the  ol"  steps  was,  was  swung  open  ;  an' 
on  the  sill,  with  her  feet  danglin',  was  a  woman  in  a  ashy-col- 
'ored  gown  an'  a  black  hank'chef  over  her  head,  eatiu'  by  the 
handful  out  of  a  berry-basket.  'F  't  wa'nt  Betsey  Bushell,  I 
donno  what  it  was.  But  when  I  'd  come  out  through  the  sweet 
corn  an'  looked  agin,  d'  y'  b'lieve  that  door  was  clapped  to? 
an'  no  kind  o'  a  livin'  bein'  visible  1  I  come  right  across  the 
wall,  an'  in  at  the  shed,  and  through  the  house,  and  round  it 
all  sides ;  an'  neither  up  the  road  nor  down,  nor  cross  the  fields, 
in  all  outdoors,  was  sign  or  track  of  anybody.  I  alwus  thought 
't  was  mighty  singler ;  an'  Betsey  Bushell's  house  's  ben  shut  up, 
an'  she  lost  sight  of  most  ever  sence." 

Sarell  had  listened  intently.  "  You  did  n't  mention  it  1 "  she 
asked,  with  point. 

"  Well,  no.  I  hurried  an'  set  my  trap,  an'  then  back  to 
drive  up  the  hay  load,  an'  —  I  did  n't  think  't  was  worth 
while." 

"No  more  't  was  n't.  Did  y' ketch  y'r  woodchuck  ?"  Her 
manner  was  light  again. 

"  Yes,  two  of  'em.  But  what  d'  you  make  out  'bout  Betsey 
Bushell  1 " 

"  I  don't  make  out.  Mebbe  't  '11  make  itself  out  —  ef  its 
well  let  alone.  Out-doors  is  a  big  place,  though.  The'  might 
be  such  a  thing 's  a  needle  in  a  haystack  ;  but  ef  I  was  in  a  hurry 
for  it  I  don't  persume  I  should  go  fust  to  the  haystack." 

When  Sarell  turned  oracular,  and  prescribed  letting  alone, 
the  subject  ended.  Hollis  assumed  upon  his  check  a  voluntary 


HOBGOBLINS.  365 

air,  as  if  he  saw  he  had  given  her  as  much  to  think  of  as 
was  well  at  once,  poured  the  last  of  the  white  roses  out  of  the 
popper,  and  laid  the  oracle  away  in  his  mind.  There  was  more 
witch-work  about  women  than  this  woman  was  ever  likely  to 
help  him  fathom. 


366  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

SHOWS   AND   DISQUIETS. 

MRS.  FARGOOD  was  very  proud  of  Flip  Merriweather's  letters. 
She  had  no  children,  and  this  young  brother  represented  for 
her  all  that  other  matrons  were  ambitious  of  and  jealous  for  in 
their  sons.  From  the  time  he  was  ten  years  old,  and  used  to 
come  and  stay  with  her  in  the  long  winters,  up  through  his 
"  schooling "  days,  and  of  late  in  the  vexing  uncertainty  and 
impatience  as  to  what  his  manhood  should  be  and  take  hold  of, 
—  sometimes  elated  that' he  could  do  anything  he  would  take 
hold  of,  and  sometimes  provoked  and  annoyed  that  he  was  in 
no  hurry  himself  for  aught  except  squirrels  and  partridges  and 
pickerel,  and  river  and  mountain  rambling,  —  she  had  made  his 
development  and  disposal,  as  women  will,  her  own  continual 
concern  of  mind  and  plan  of  effort,  hardly  remembering  that 
either  he  or  Providence  had  also  anything  to  say  about  it. 

"  Why  can't  you  be  like  those  Heybrooks  ? "  she  used  to  ask 
him,  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  afterward,  when  he  was 
growing  bigger.  Until  one  day  he  answered  her  conclusively, 
"  Sister  !  if  you  have  n't  found  out  yet  that  I  ain't  those  Hey 
brooks  and  can't  be  made  into  those  Heybi-ooks,  I  might  just  as 
well  tell  you  so  as  to  let  you  keep  on  hammerin'.  And  as  long 
as  you  pound,  I  sha'n't  get  into  any  shape,  tkeirn  nor  mine ! " 

"'Theirs,'  Flip,"  corrected  Hannah  Louisa  meekly,  recog 
nizing,  as  women  have  to  do,  the  masculine  positivity,  when  it 
assei'ts  itself,  with  whatever  waywardness. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  always  secretly  and  restlessly  compar 
ing  ;  making  a  point,  all  the  while,  and  for  the  very  cause,  of 
airing  Flip's  best  sayings  and  doings  in  Mother  Heybrook's 
ears,  in  talks  at  the  sewing-circle,  and  calls  at  the  farm. 

And    Mother    Heybrook  —  not  advertising  at  all  her  boys' 


SHOWS   AND   DISQUIETS.  367 

superiority,  of  which  her  consciousness  had  grown  so  calm  and 
prevailing  a  great  while  since  as  to  have  been  beyond  the  tri 
umph  of  mere  instances  —  would  say,  with  her  gentle  conces 
sion,  too  kind  to  be  satisfying,  "  Flip  's  a  smart  boy,  yes.  Ef  he 
only  gits  started  right,  I  don't  doubt  his  doin'  well." 

One  surprised  and  admiring  "  Well  done  !  "  from  the  success 
ful  mother's  lips  or  eyes  was  Hannah  Louisa's  most  fervent 
ambition. 

So  she  came  often  to  the  farm  this  winter,  when  the  after 
noons  were  turning  rosy  with  the  low  light  along  the  snows, 
bringing  her  knitting-work  and  Philip's  last  communications  ; 
and  sometimes,  —  often,  —  Israel  Heybrook,  seeing  the  doctor's 
sleigh  come  winding  along  through  the  bit  of  plain  into  the 
Clark  Hollow,  would  be  with  his  mother  in  the  warm,  pleasant 
keeping-room  when  the  visitor  and  her  budget  arrived. 

One  day,  therefore,  he  had  listened  to  these  paragraphs :  — 

"  Tell  about  weddings,  Hannah  Louisa  !  I  rather  think  you  'd 
just  like  to  have  been  in  the  big  Church  of  the  Epiphany  the 
other  night.  There  was  a  showing  to  the  Gentiles  that  the 
meeting-house  was  n't  ever  named  for.  Only  there  were  n't  many 
Gentiles  let  in. 

"  In  the  first  place,  there  was  a  carpet  and  an  awning  all  the 
way  from  the  great  doors  down  the  steps  and  across  the  side 
walk  ;  and  policemen  each  side  to  keep  off  the  crowd.  Then 
inside  it  was  all  blazing  with  lights,  and  the  front  of  the  chan 
cel,  that 's  the  railed  end,  you  know,  where  the  minister  does 
his  part  of  the  business,  and  the  steps  up  to  it,  were  full  of 
plants  in  bloom,  and  heaps  of  flowers,  such  as  you  'd  say  never 
did  bloom  out  of  the  Garden  of  Eden.  And  there  were  eight 
fellows  in  such  get-ups  as  come  to  pass  only  a  long  way  down 
from  Adam  and  the  fig-leaves,  and  white  favors  of  flowers  and 
ribbons  on  their  coat-lappets,  travelling  back  and  forth  in  the 
broad  aisle  at  the  allotment,  I  should  say,  of  five  or  six  miles 
apiece  in  the  whole  job,  first  and  last,  —  handing  people  into 
their  seats. 

"  People  !  there  ought  to  be  some  other  word  for  it,  when  a 
crowd  is  like  that.  Velvet  and  satin  and  jewelry,  and  feathers 
and  flowers  and  lace,  and  ribbons  and  trinkets  of  fans  and 


368  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

things,  and  bouquets,  and  hair  !  and  smilings  and  noddings  and 
rustlings  and  -whisperings  and  leanings  this  way  and  that,  -~-  it 
was  a  kind  of  live  ocean  of  gorgeousness  with  the  spirit  of  '  all- 
this-is-us '  moving  about  on  the  face  of  it.  And  a  little,  low 
music  playing  on  the  organ  all  the  time. 

"  Then  at  last  the  organ  hushed  up,  and  so  did  the  whispers, 
but  there  was  more  rustling  than  ever,  because  every  head  was 
turning  round.  And  the  ushers  —  those  were  the  eight  fellows 
—  were  all  down  at  the  doors,  that  were  wide  open.  And  pres 
ently  the  organ  started  off  with  the  big  Wedding  March,  and 
the  eight  fellows  came  up  two  and  two  through  the  aisle  again, 
and  stood  round,  scattering,  each  side  of  the  chancel,  among  the 
flowers,  and  behind  them  came  the  bride's  mother  with  the 
bridegroom ;  and  after  them  the  bride's  father  with  the  bride, 
and  now  I  '11  mention  that  they  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  H. 
Everidge,  and  Miss  Euphemia  Everidge  and  a  Mr.  Sampson 
Kaynard,  who  has  n't  got  much  Sampson  about  him,  I  guess, 
except  his  name,  and  maybe  the  same  kind  of  a  jaw-bone  be 
longing  to  him. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  dare  to  stop  without  telling  you  what  the 
bride  had  on.  She  was  dressed  in  white  satin,  with  velvet 
borderings  and  a  kind  of  workery  of  silver  flowers ;  and  the  rest 
of  the  stuff  that  she  could  n't  get  on  filled  up  the  aisle  behind 
her,  like  a  drift  of  snow  along  Thumble's  sides,  just  frozen  over 
and  shiny,  and  edged  off  with  some  that  was  new-fallen  and  all 
full  of  little  icy  sparkles,  so  that  when  she  knelt  down  to  be 
married,  she  was  a  clear  heap  of  snow  and  frosty  flowers  and 
white  veil  like  a  fog,  and  just  her  face  and  the  edges  of  her 
hair,  and  one  hand  with  a  great  round  bunch  of  real  white  lilies 
in  it,  to  make  her  out  by.  I  should  say  it  was  enough  to  scare 
a  fellow  to  swear  up  to  such  a  panorama  of  a  woman  as  that ! 

"  But  they  came  down  the  aisle  presently,  a  good  deal  as  if 
nothing  particular  had  happened  to  them  since  they  went  up. 
And  then  the  ushers  began  handing  the  people  out  again.  The 
family  first,  like  mourners.  I  forgot  to  say  that  four  of  them 
had  led  in  the  four  sisters  last  of  all  before  they  went  down  the 
middle  and  up  again  to  fetch  the  bridal  party.  And  the  pret 
tiest  sight  of  the  whole,  to  my  mind,  was  our  Miss  France,  in  a 


SHOWS   AND   DISQUIETS.  369 

dress  just  the  color  of  a  blush  rose,  and  not  too  much  of  it,  but 
sort  of  folded  round  her  as  a  bud  folds  itself  up,  and  her  face 
looking  real  sweet  and  not  a  bit  proud.  Not  even  so  proud  as 
it  used  to  look  sometimes  at  Fellaiden.  When  she  came  out 
again,  her  eyes  were  wet  and  her  lips  trembled. 

"  It  was  Oliver  Bannian  that  took  her,  —  both  times.  He  is 
one  of  the  big  Bannians  out  at  Oldwood.  There  's  lots  of  them. 
Oldwood  's  all  Bannians,  and  they  've  got  no  end  of  money 
amongst  them.  Just  buy  up  the  biggest  thing  that 's  going 
and  make  it  bigger.  They  say  Oliver  's  after  France,  but  that 
don't  make  out  anything.  There  's  a  dozen  more  that 's  that. 
He  was  round  her  all  that  evening,  anyway.  I  was  at  the  re 
ception,  with  the  Miss  Pyes.  That  was  France's  doing  too,  for 
clerks  and  shippers  don't  count  in  those  lots  usually. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  any  more  about  it ;  it 's  too  long  a  story. 
I  stepped  about  amongst  the  extra  drygoods  piled  round  on  the 
floors,  and  heard  a  lot  of  trash  talked,  and  just  one  thing  that 
•was  worth  while  to  remember  or  say  over,  and  that  was.  Miss 
France  said  it  to  Mr.  Oliver  Bannian. 

"  '  You  '11  miss  your  sister,'  says  he,  just  making  talk,  and 
eating  ice-cream  as  fast  as  he  could  swallow.  .'  Specially  out  of 
that  awfully  jolly,  little  evening  room  of  yours.' 

"  She  looked  back  quick  at  him,  as  if  he  had  called  her  away 
from  something  else  that  she  was  thinking  of.  '  I  don't  think  I 
miss  people,'  she  said  in  that  clear,  even  way  of  hers,  with  a 
kind  of  bell-note  to  her  voice.  '  What  they  are  to  me  is  al 
ways  there.' 

"  They  say  the  old  man  has  given  Mrs.  Kaynard  twenty 
thousand  right  out,  and  she  had  five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
presents. 

"  That 's  all  about  that. 

"  Tell  Sam  Baxter  he  'd  better  stay  where  he  is,  unless  he  '11 
come  along  with  his  axe  and  his  overalls,  and  do  down  here  the 
thing  he  can  do  first-rate  up  there.  I  know  a  man  will  give 
him  one-fifty  a  cord  for  chopping  and  piling,  and  Sam  can  do 
three  cords  a  day.  It  takes  something  that  a  fellow  can  do 
with  his  two  hands,  and  then  for  him  to  take  hold  and  do  it, 
and  beat  every  time,  to  make  a  place  nowadays.  You  can't  get 

24 


370  ODD,  OR   EVEN  ? 

places.  Folks  here  ain't  crying  for  country  bone  and  sinew  to 
come  and  grab  their  soft  business.  There  's  a  crowd  of  chaps 
now,  standing  in  platoons,  miles  deep,  round  the  cities,  all 
educated  and  dressed  up  ahead  of  their  chances,  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets,  waiting  for  the  professions  and  the 
banks  and  the  railroad  companies  and  the  rings  in  trade  and 
stocks  and  the  old,  settled  firms  to  cry  out  for  'em.  But  they 
don't  do  it.  The  sides  are  all  made  up,  and  the  game  's  in  the 
middle.  Daniel  Webster  said  there  was  '  room  enough  at  the 
top.'  There  is  n't  now.  And  there  was  n't  for  him,  before  he 
got  through.  Things  are  top-heavy.  The  country  has  manufac 
tured  more  Presidents  than  it  will  ever  have  any  use  for. 

"  I  suppose  Sam  will  say  I  talk  smart  now  I  've  got  what  I 
wanted  myself.  But  I  can  tell  him  it 's  a  long  look  ahead,  and 
through  the  woods,  yet.  And  I  should  n't  have  got  it  if  I 
had  n't  known  just  one  little  thing  of  my  own  better  than 
most  folks.  I  knew  how  to  catch  a  pickerel." 

Israel  sat  through  all  this  to  the  end,  notwithstanding  that 
he  had  a  great  impulse  to  rise  tip  and  escape  from  it  in  the 
middle.  When  he  had  heard  it,  he  found  that  it  all  had  some 
point  of  meaning  for  himself;  and  when  finally  he  did  get  up 
with  his  sober  quietness,  and  say  to  his  mother,  "  I  'm  going 
up  to  East  Centre,  mother  ;  anything  to  send  or  say  1 "  he  went 
away  with  three  things  to  think  of  besides  his  own  direct  busi 
ness  and  Mrs.  Heybrook's  little  errand. 

First,  —  His  own  plan  and  ambition  in  life,  that  had  been 
turned  back  upon  him  here,  and  that  still,  spite  of  his  noble 
way  of  taking  the  alternative,  and  making  noble  work  of  it, 
would  now  and  then  lift  itself  out  of  that  shadowy  "might 
have  been,"  insisting  upon  fresh  comparison,  and  reiteration  of 
the  judgment  and  motive  that  had  kept  it  down. 

Flip  Merriweather  was  right :  there  were  more  men  educated 
for  top  places  now  than  there  were  top  places  to  fill.  He 
might  never  have  worked  into  such  professional  life  as  would 
have  satisfied  him.  He  would  not  have  stood  in  those  pla 
toons  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  should  have  come 
back  to  the  farm,  very  likely,  any  way,  But  the  dear  knowl 
edge  that  he  wanted !  If  he  could  have  had  full  time  for  that. 


SHOWS    AND   DISQUIETS.  371 

To  have  made  himself  a  little  more  equal  with  the  best,  and 
then  to  have  put  the  best,  if  need  be,  into  his  plain  work, 
through  which  it  would  come  to  whatever  there  was  for  it, 
though  the  game  out  there,  for  the  dollar-and-cent  chances, 
were  all  made  up  !  And  Lyman,  too,  —  the  boy  who  had  a  gift 
of  his  own,  that  he  could  follow  better  than  most,  and  for 
which  there  was  place  enough  wherever  men  and  women  bore 
the  burden  and  suffering  of  the  body. 

It  was  wrong,  somehow,  that  made  any  real  hindrance. 

It  was  wrong  and  greed,  down  there  among  the  cities,  that 
kept  any  real  power  from  finding  honest  room  to  work  in,  in 
this  world  of  powers  meant  to  unfold  into  things  its  poor, 
selfish  human  economies  had  not  conceived  of. 

So  he  turned  the  old  problem  over  in  his  mind,  a  matter 
partly  put  by  and  done  with  for  himself,  but  present  and  press 
ing,  pressing  down  and  hard,  on  others. 

Above  all  this  rose  the  fresh  vision  of  France  Everidge. 

"  What  people  are  to  me  is  always  there,"  she  had  said. 
There  were  both  sweetness  and  sting  for  him  in  that.  She  was 
his  friend ;  she  knew  that  he  was  hers.  They  had  promised 
each  other  that.  He  knew  it  would  stand  ;  that  what  he  was 
to  her  was  there.  But  only  her  friend.  She  had  taken  such 
care  of  that. 

And  she  did  not  "  miss "  people.  She  was  satisfied,  in  this 
faith  of  hers,  that  where  she  left  them,  there  she  could  find 
them,  and  take  them  up  again.  Perhaps  that  was  how  a  wo 
man  is  different  in  her  friendships  from  a  man.  Or  can  a 
woman  have  a  friendship  beyond  where,  to  a  man,  it  remains 
possible  ]  He  missed  her ;  he  wanted  her,  —  her,  of  all  the 
world  ;  not  "  there,"  but  here  ! 

Was  he  to  put  by  this  also? 

Was  it  not  by,  far  by,  already  ?  She,  among  those  grand, 
luxurious  people,  that  Phil  said  shrewdly  ought  not  to  be  called 
by  the  name  of  the  mass  at  all ;  "  dozens  after  her  "  who  could 
deck  and  surround  her  and  shut  her  off  like  this  :  was  not  she 
gone  by  from  him,  like  all  the  rest  of  it  1  She  1  It  was  no  longer 
she  alone,  as  she  had  been  here  in  the  sweet  hills,  separated 
from  her  splendor  and  her  obligation.  People  who  could  marry 


372  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

their  daughters  like  that,  —  what  could  he  ever  have  to  ask  of 
them  1  He  had  been  a  fool. 

Graver,  severer  in  its  gravity,  than  usual,  his  face  was,  as  he 
went  through  with  Mr.  Kingsworth  presently  some  parish  plans 
and  lists ;  even  as  he  talked  with  Leonora  about  the  new  Mon 
day  evening  class,  for  the  foreign  tour  with  the  stereopticon,  and 
the  great  sleigh  that  was  to  go  round  and  pick  up  such  as 
had  n't  their  own  ways  for  coming. 

"  We  are  going  to  make  it  so  gradual  and  real,"  Miss  Kings- 
worth  said.  "  We  are  to  have  two  evenings  of  sailing  and 
seafaring  and  arrival  scenes ;  there  is  one  of  icebergs,  and  one 
of  a  storm,  and  one  of  a  lovely  great  ocean  sunset ;  and  then 
there  are  the  Irish  headlands,  and  the  Channel  pictures,  and 
the  going  up  the  Mersey.  It  won't  be  much  faster  than  Cook, 
and  not  half  so  confusing.  Only  one  of  these  days  they  will 
all  find  themselves  talking  about  '  when  we  were  in  Scotland,' 
and  '  when  we  went  down  through  Warwickshire,'  and  '  the 
night  we  arrived  in  Paris.'  Those  lighted  bridges  and  quays, 
and  the  boulevards  and  the  shops,  are  just  the  very  identities 
themselves.  Bernard  —  but  does  your  head  ache,  Mr.  Hey- 
brook  1 "  she  broke  oif  to  ask  suddenly,  with  the  sweetest 
directness  and  simplicity. 

Then  Israel  smiled  as  he  thanked  her,  and  assured  her  not; 
but  she  saw  some  sort  of  weariness  or  ache  in  the  smile,  and 
wondered  if  he  had  n't  something  he  would  like  to  say  to  Ber 
nard  ;  so  she  was  gone,  presently,  out  of  the  room,  without 
having  made  any  least  little  demonstration  of  her  going. 

"  What  is  it,  Rael  ?  "  his  friend  asked  then. 

"Only  the  'vain  show  '  of  things,"  returned  Israel,  with  the 
same  slow  smile.  "  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  we  only  got  the 
pictures  of  living." 

"I  am  learning  to  be  thankful  for  the  pictures,"  Bernard 
said.  "  It  is  a  thing  one  has  to  learn.  But  I  think  I  know  that 
my  Father  shows  me  nothing  except  what  He  has  in  his  mind  to 
give  me,  sometime.  Not  in  the  mere  first  shape,  perhaps,  in 
which  He  has  to  make  me  see  it ;  but  in  what  Leo  calls  the 
'  identity.'  '  Then  I  shall  be  satisfied,  when  I  shall  awake  in 
His  likeness.'  When  I  get  my  full  consciousness,  and  find  that 


SHOWS   AND   DISQUIETS.  373 

it  is  in  the  verity  of  that  of  which  He  has  given  me  the 
image." 

"  I  believe  you  do  feel  so,  Mr.  Kingsworth.  And  I  believe 
you  have  the  right." 

"  You  have  the  same,  Rael." 

Rael  was  silent. 

"  It  is  the  right  of  the  thirsty." 

"  We  are  all  that,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes.  And  so  the  pledge  is  to  all,  — '  Let  him  that  is 
athirst  come.'  '  Every  one  that  thirsteth,  without  money,  and 
without  price.'  So  that  one  has  no  right,  over  another.  ;  Who 
soever  will,  let  him  come,  and  drink  of  the  water  of  life 
freely.' " 

"  But  that  is  the  water  of  life,  —  spiritual  life,  I  suppose." 

"  What  else  has  life  but  the  spirit  1  It  is  just  whatever  we 
are  thirsty  for,  in  these  souls  that  love  and  question,  and  want 
to  have  and  know.  It  is  our  satisfying ;  it  is  what  meets  the 
need  we  are  suffering  from,  the  present  experience  of  the 
spirit.  It  is  a  real  thing ;  it  is  only  set  in  an  image  so  far  as 
that  which  has  the  keenest  bodily  likeness  to  it  is  chosen  for  a 
sign  to  us  of  how  perfect  the  satisfying  shall  be,  —  the  satisfy 
ing  the  thirst  is  given  for." 

"  But  it  is  not  earthly ;  it  is  righteousness." 

"Isn't  that  what  you  are  craving  for1?  That  things  should 
be  made  right  with  you  ]  You  have  got  a  certain  way  beyond 
any  wish  for  good  that  cannot  come  righteously  ?  You  would 
not  lift  your  hand  to  take  a  thing,  though  you  wanted  it  ever 
so  much,  that  it  would  not  be  honest  to  take  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Rael.  "  I  want  nothing  that  does  not  belong  to 
me.  But  what  does,  I  do  want." 

"  Exactly.  And  to  know  righteously  what  it  is.  That  is 
what  God  means  to  show  us,  and  then  give." 

"  Not  in  this  world's  things." 

"  In  everything  that  begins  in  this  world  and  reaches  on  out 
of  it.  Don't  separate  God's  righteousnesses ;  and  don't  try  to 
separate  soul  from  its  own  body  that  He  giveth  it.  He  will  not 
take  away  any  single  right  good  from  you  to  give  you  any 
other.  When  you  come  to  think  so  about  all,  not  to  want 


374  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

what  you  cannot  honestly,  according  to  perfect  honors  and 
values,  in  the  '  measure  of  an  angel,'  have,  then  the  Lord's 
prayer  will  be  consummated  in  you,  and  the  Will  be  done  in  the 
earthly  things  as,  and  because,  it  is  done  in  the  heavenly. 
There  can  be  no  mistake.  It  is  the  perfect  Law  of  Righteous 
ness." 

"  For  the  converted." 

"  When  you  turn  to  God's  will,  you  are  converted.  He  is 
converting  us  all  the  time.  Not  away  from  anything ;  but  in 
and  through  the  absolute  whole  of  us,  here  and  now,  as  well  as 
then  and  there." 

"  And  we  see  things,  that  would  have  been  a  whole  life  to  us, 
go  past  us,  and  away  from  us.  They  do  go,  Mr.  Kingsworth. 
You  cannot  say  they  don't." 

Rael  spoke  with  a  hard  tone,  almost  like  a  bitter  challenge. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  answered  him  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
out  of  a  far,  sweet  calm,  as  strong  as  any  bitter  despair  could 
be. 

"  They  do  go ;  and  they  —  or  what  they  foreshadowed  — 
come  again  to  us.  Nothing  comes  near  us,  but  on  a  divine  and 
bountiful  errand." 

"  I  have  wanted,"  said  Rael,  carried  out  of  his  reserve,  as  if 
he  had  been  talking  with  a  spirit,  "  what  a  man  only  wants  once, 
with  all  there  is  of  him,  —  and  it  is  going  by." 

After  Rael  said  this,  there  came  a  brief  pause  between  them. 

When  Bernard  spoke,  it  was  with  a  tone  just  changed  for  the 
deeper,  but  none  the  less  calm,  none  the  less  strong. 

"  I  have  gone  through  that,  Rael.  What  I  wanted,  or  thought 
I  must  have,  has  gone  by ;  but  neither  of  us  knows  what  is 
waiting,  coming,  for  him,  or  where.  It  is  with  the  Desire  that 
is  greater  for  us  than  our  own." 

The  two  men  held  their  hands  out  to  each  other ;  they  met 
in  a  firm  clasp.  There  was  no  more  for  two  men  to  say  :  their 
confidences  are  not  as  the  confidences  of  women. 

Rael  Heybrook  took  up  his  hat,  and  went  away. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  followed  him  to  the  outer  door,  and  said 
good-night ;  then  he  came  back  to  his  study,  and  shut  himself 
in,  in  the  twilight. 


SHOWS   AND   DISQUIETS.  375 

He  had  not  been  passive  all  these  months  ;  he  had  been  ques 
tioning,  discerning,  quietly  recollecting,  many  things. 

He  had  not  stayed  away  from  Fellaiden  simply  because  the 
girl  was  there  who  had  hurriedly  refused  his  first  asking.  She 
had  involuntarily  done  more  than  that. 

Now  this  was  the  plain  other  half  to  the  problem.  If  it  had 
never  been  certain  before,  it  could  not  be  otherwise  now.  Only 
—  he  could  quite  clearly  see,  in  his  honest  courage  to  see  —  the 
two  halves  had  failed,  somehow,  to  join  themselves. 

Was  that  any  responsibility,  now  it  had  been  shown  to  him, 
of  his  1 

Noblesse  oblige. 

There  is  something  mightier  than  a  born  name,  —  there  is  a 
born  soul  and  desire  of  nobleness.  He  had  already  acted  upon 
it,  when  he  had  answered  Rael  Heybrook  that  he  also  had 
"  wanted,  with  all  that  there  was  of  him,"  and  that  his  own  wish 
had  gone  by.  In  that  very  moment,  at  last,  it  did  utterly  go 

by- 

In  that  righteousness,  in  the  heart  of  that  perfect  wish  and 
will  for  him,  whatever  else  there  might  be,  it  was  made  plain  to 
him  now  that  it  was  not  "this  thing,  so  dear,  so  sweet." 

In  just  this  giving  of  it,  it  might  be  for  those  other  two,  but 
not  for  him.  And  this  righteousness  was  actually  and  vitally, 
as  he  had  preached  it,  greater  and  dearer  to  him  than  selfish 
fulfilling.  His  "  preaching  and  praying  "  were  truly  "  the  same 
word."  He  had  never  "  made  known  "  to  his  people  what  had 
not  first  and  truly  been  "  made  known "  between  him  and  his 
Father. 

Let  the  will  be  done,  then.  He  was  soul-valiant  enough  to 
hope,  —  to  ask  for  it,  —  laying  his  own  will  and  joy  down  at  the 
feet  of  his  Lord. 

And  we  know  that  whoso  layeth  his  life  down  there,  taketh 
it  again. 


376  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

DRIFT. 

AFTER  Christmas,  the  Everidges  moved  into  town. 

They  took  a  lovely  furnished  house  in  "  Westmoreland,"  with 
four  rooms  and  a  conservatory  on  the  first  floor.  The  little  par 
lor  between  the  drawing-room  and  conservatory,  blinded  to  day 
light  by  a  blank  wall,  but  exquisite  in  the  evening  with  gaslight 
and  olive  and  old-gold  furnishings  in  simple  cloth,  with  a  Stein- 
way  in  the  deep  alcove  that  made  the  apartment  L-shaped,  and 
a  stand  of  flowers,  that  never  blossomed  there,  but  was  replen 
ished  every  week  from  the  florist's,  filling  up  the  introspective 
bay-window  on  the  long  side,  was  the  young  ladies'  evening- 
room. 

Now  France  set  her  face  against  this  evening-room,  just  as 
she  had  done  against  the  one  in  their  house  out  of  town,  —  only 
with  more  emphasis,  inasmuch  as  city  receptions  were  more  ex 
tended  and  pronounced  than  the  same  sort  of  things  in  the  coun 
try.  She  never  sat  there,  except  purely  to  oblige  Helen ;  and 
she  would  not  do  that  when  only  young  men  called,  so  that,  as 
Helen  said,  what  did  her  obliging  amount  to?  Poor  Helen  was 
sadly  discomfited  by  the  spokes  in  her  wheels  that  France's  in 
creasing  oddities  kept  inserting.  "If  she  hadn't  any  sister!" 
she  said.  "  But  to  go  off  and  make  a  point  of  receiving  alone, 
when  France  was  out  there  in  the  library  with  papa  and  mamma, 
and  when  it  was  just  exactly  the  good  of  there  being  two  of 
them  ! " 

But  France  said,  "  I  don't  like  this  separating  of  visits.  Why 
should  n't  the  girls  want  to  talk  with  mamma  1  She  is  better 
company  than  any  of  us.  And  as  to  gentlemen,  —  I  think  it  is 
simply  vulgar  to  receive  them  by  ourselves.  As  if  so  much 


DRIFT.  377 

more  were  meant  than  there  is,  —  or  we  were  determined  there 
should  be  ! " 

"  Pray  do  drop  the  'gentlemen,'  France  !  "  put  in  Mrs.  Samp 
son  Kaynard,  who  was  taking  tea  with  her  sisters.  "  Nobody 
says  it.  The  '  gentlemen '  are  all  behind  the  small  counters 
now,  and  the  'ladies'  work  at  Fitzrinkle  &  Chorker's,  and  go 
out  to  their  one  o'clock  apple-pie  and  coffee  with  rolls  of  music 
in  their  hands  !  There  are  only  men  in  our  set." 

"  I  don't  see  why  a  lady  should  not  work  at  Fitzriukle  & 
Chorker's,  if  she  has  occasion,"  said  incorrigible  France,  ignoring 
the  men. 

"  Exactly,"  returned  Euphemia.  "  It  is  the  rolls  of  music  we 
object  to;  so  we  don't  carry  rolls  of  music  any  more.  Enid 
Upperton  had  a  two-page  song  sent  home  the  other  day.  She 
said  she  would  sooner  carry  a  market-basket." 

"  What  do  you  think  France  said  to  somebody  the  other 
night,  who  asked  if  he  might  call  ? " 

"  What  did  you  say,  France  1 "  laughed  Mrs.  Kaynard,  who 
did  not  wish  to  push  too  far  into  earnest,  and  who  was  rather 
proud  of  her  sister's  odd  independence,  and  retailed  a  good 
many  of  her  trenchant  sayings  where  she  chose  herself  to  op 
pose,  for  her  own  convenience,  some  conventionality. 

"  0,  you  can  laugh  ;  you  're  well  out  of  it,"  said  Helen,  with 
something  as  near  sullenness  as  an  elegant  girl  allows  herself. 

"  France,  nobody  shall  tell  tales  of  you  but  yourself.  What 
did  you  say  1 "  persisted  Euphemia. 

"  I  suppose  I  know  what  she  means.  I  told  Mr.  Ralph  Mad- 
dison  —  " 

"  That  handsome  New-Yorker !  " 

"  That  we  should  be  happy  to  see  him.  But  I  begged  him  to 
come  early  in  the  evening,  for  mamma  kept  early  hours,  and  we 
did  not  like  to  disturb  her  ways." 

"  Which  was  the  same,"  Helen  remarked  in  a  crushing  tone, 
"  as  if  she  had  said,  '  and  don't  stay  long ;  and  don't  imagine  we 
care  to  see  you  on  our  own  account.'" 

"  Ralph  Maddison  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Kaynard. 

"  I  knew  you  'd  be  shocked.  That  was  why  I  did  n't  over 
whelm  you  with  the  name  at  first.  But  that 's  the  way  she  goes 


378  ODD,    OB   EVEN  ? 

on ;  and  now  she  's  putting  her  back  up  at  the  notion  of  young 
dinner-parties." 

"  No,"  said  France.  "  Only  that  there  should  n't  be  a  dinner 
party  here,  I  thoxight,  at  which  papa  and  mamma  did  not  pre 
side." 

"  France,  they  all  do  it,"  said  Euphemia,  with  urgent  asser 
tion.  "  The  Copseley  Banuians  are  in  town,  and  the  girls  have 
given  two  or  three  dinners  of  their  own,  already.  Young  Mrs. 
Banuian  Chute  is  there,  to  be  sure,  and  takes  the  lead ;  but 
they  never  have  the  old  people." 

"  Do  they  take  their  dinner  in  the  nursery,  —  the  old  people, 
I  mean?"  asked  France,  with  simplicity. 

"  Pshaw !  Don't  try  to  run  against  all  the  world,  France. 
There  are  always  rooms  enough.  Why  should  n't  young  people 
be  young  1  Nell,  I  '11  come  any  time,  and  matronize  ;  and  you  '11 
see  how  nice  the  new  way  is,"  she  added,  to  the  refractory 
younger  sister. 

"  No,  I  shall  not,  Erne.  While  I  live  in  my  father's  house, 
and  at  his  table,  I  shall  eat  my  dinners  with  him,  even  if  he 
had  nothing  to  say  about  it,  which  I  think  he  will." 

Mrs.  Kaynard  diverted  the  subject.  "  The  Bannians,  and  all 
their  set,  are  just  wild  about  Anna  Maddison.  Do  you  think  she 
is  such  a  beauty,  Nell  ? " 

"  She  has  n't  the  first  bit  of  beauty  —  regularly.  She  has 
effect.  It  is  all  that  brazen-brown  hair  of  hers,  and  her  general 
picturesqueness  and  the  face-play  and  the  little  turns  and  ges 
tures.  She  's  dramatic." 

"  A  girl  deserves  more  credit  for  that  kind  of  beauty  than  for 
born  beauty,  I  think,"  said  Euphemia. 

"  Credit !  "  France  was  surprised  into  the  exclamation.  She 
did  not  mean  to  be  priggish,  or  to  put  down  everything ;  but 
that  word  had  something  in  it  that  hurt  her,  as  well  as  moved 
her  scorn.  She  felt  as  if  everything  were  being  already  put 
down  —  cheapened.  Was  that  how  a  girl's  ways  were  to  be 
looked  at  and  accounted  for]  It.  took  away  all  the  ideal  sweet 
ness  of  a  woman's  being  and  doing.  Getting  herself  tip,  — 
achieving  beauty,  or  something  more  distinguishing ;  aiming 
consciously  at  what  should  be  spontaneous  and  native,  to  be 


DRIFT.  379 

anything ;  studying  if  all  the  time,  and  almost  avowing  it  as 
study ;  not  ashamed  to  take  praise  and  admiration  for  it. 
Was  this  what  was  true  of  a  class,  having  "that  kind  of 
beauty  "  ?  And  other  women  giving  credit !  It  really  seemed 
as  if  it  were  demanded  to  make  one  creditable,  like  having  styl 
ish  gowns. 

"  There  goes  France's  nose  again,"  said  Helen.  "  It 's  got 
the  very  tip  of  Miss  Ammah's.  You  can't  say  the  first  thing 
before  her.  She 's  always  deprecating.  She  's  always  sitting  on 
twelve  thrones,  judging  the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel.  She  's  born 
into  the  wrong  world." 

"  France  is  preoccupied.  She  has  got  some  world  of  her  own, 
real  or  imaginary.  She  brings  everything  into  some  sort  of 
comparison.  I  can  see  her  do  it.  She 's  more  like  an  engaged 
girl  than  a  girl  with  a  fate  to  find  out.  She  's  awfully  settled." 

Axminster  carpets  and  portieres  are  convenient  things  for  all 
the  little  refinements  of  human  nature,  when  it  would  like  to 
act  out  gently  its  primitive  moods.  Before  Euphemia  had 
ended  her  sentence,  France,  without  the  opening  or  shutting  of 
a  door,  or  the  sound  of  a  footstep,  had  withdrawn  herself. 

"  Now  she 's  offended,"  said  Helen  bluntly. 

"  No,"  returned  France's  clear  voice  from  the  wide,  square 
hall  outside,  as  she  moved  on  quietly  toward  the  small  back 
drawing-room  through  its  open  folding-doors.  "  Only  put  out, 
into  the  third  person.  The  third  person  discreetly  facilitates 
the  conversation."  And  she  passed  across  into  the  library 
beyond,  shutting  its  door  half  to  behind  her  as  she  entered,  and 
went  over  and  sat  down  by  the  bright  fire. 

She  wanted  something  from  outside  that  should  overbear  the 
hot  color  in  her  cheeks.  In  the  dim  little  evening-room,  the 
gas  not  yet  lighted,  the  others  had  not  known  of  it.  And  she 
had  kept  her  voice  so  absolutely  cool.  But  she  took  herself  to 
task  now  as  to  why,  and  precisely  when  it  had  come  up. 

She  knew  quite  well ;  it  had  begun,  absurdly,  with  just  that 
sudden  word,  "  Israel."  And  it  had  gone  on,  flaming  intenser 
from  some  deeper  feeding,  as  Effie's  speech  went  on. 

It  was  not  vexation  :  it  was  conviction. 

She  loas  odd  ;  she  knew  that ;  it  was  because  she  had  been  at 


380  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

odds ;  there  was  something  true  in  Helen's  saying,  "  she  is  born 
into  the  wrong  world,"  At  any  rate,  she  was  not  yet  born  into 
her  right  one.  And  this  world  around  her,  and  she  in  it,  were 
growing  more  at  odds  than  ever.  She  felt  herself  cranky  and 
jarring ;  that  was  the  way  it  was  coming  upon  her,  she  sup 
posed  ;  that  was  the  way  people  turned  into  old  maids,  the  odd 
women.  Yes ;  she  was  very  likely  to  be  an  old  maid. 

And  with  that  the  color  surged  up  again. 

Only  for  that  little  while  last  summer,  she  had  been,  or  had 
been  growing,  at  evens  with  things.  Among  those  true,  sim 
ple  people,  in  the  presence  of  those  mighty,  sweet  realities  of 
God's  world,  just  as  He  had  made  it,  she  had  been  running 
with,  not  against,  the  current  of  the  days.  Here  it  was  all 
crisscross  again.  And  she  had  no  hold  there ;  and  here  she 
was  held  fast.  She  had  no  right  to  expect  ever  to  have  the  way 
made  for  her  to  go  to  Fellaiden  again.  And  what  of  Fellaiden 
would  ever  come  down  here,  now  1 

She  remembered,  thinking  of  the  crisscross,  what  she  had 
heard  Mother  Heybrook  say  one  day,  concerning  some  affairs 
that  were  spoken  of.  It  had  been  the  nearest  she  had  ever 
heard  her  come  to  direct  censure  of  anybody.  "Everything 
goes  so  with  them  alwers  ;  their  luck  is  alwers  in  a  snarl," 
that  was  what  Mother  Heybrook  replied  to.  She  said  in  her 
gentle  way,  "  When  things  go  crisscross  with  people,  alwers, 
it's  most  likely  they've  took  a  cross-track  somewhers  their- 
selves,  —  or  some  of  their  folks," — putting  the  blame  as  far 
back,  and  making  it  as  impersonal,  as  she  could.  "  But  it 
don't  go  alwers,  ever,"  she  added,  brightening  up  into  the  great 
final  hope  that  softened  and  smoothed  all  with  her.  "  The 
whole  thread  isn't  in  any  snarl." 

Yes,  Erne  had  touched  it.  She  was  preoccupied.  What 
had  been  merely  restless  half-satisfaction  once  was  a  definite 
weighing  and  finding  wanting,  now.  She  was  bringing  every 
thing  into  comparison.  How  had  Erne  known  so  much,  knowing 
no  more  1 

She  had  been  so  near  real  people,  who  meant  every  bit  of 
their  lives,  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  come  back  into  tire 
some,  trivial,  little  social  appearances,  little  ambitions  and 


DRIFT.  381 

laborings  to  make  things  seem  a  certain  way.  Behind  the 
seeming,  what  was  there  ? 

She  brought  everything  to  that  measure,  —  yes,  it  was  the 
measure  of  a  man.  She  had  learned  it  in  him.  That  very 
name,  Israel,  the  name  of  her  friend,  had  power  in  its  merest 
chance  sound  and  mention.  Was  she  ashamed  of  that  1 

She  was  neither  ashamed  nor  vexed ;  but  she  was  convicted. 

This  friend,  what  was  she  to  do  henceforth  without  him  1  He 
had  become  to  her  her  Great  Pyramid  ;  the  sign  and  token  for 
her,  yes,  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  in  this  laud  of  Egypt. 

And  yet,  here  she  was  without  him.  She  had  put  this  win 
ter,  how  much  more  she  could  not  know,  between  him  and  her. 
And  while  he  was  inward  sign  and  strength  to  her,  they  were 
none  the  less  drifting  apart. 

Drifted  apart  in  so  short  a  time,  and  with  that  promise  of 
friendship  between  them  1 

What  people  are  to  us  may  be  always  there,  but  there  may 
be  long,  sorrowful  times  of  missing  them  nevertheless,  through 
not  having  apprehended,  in  the  day  of  its  grace,  just  what  that 
belonging  ought  to  have  been. 

Life-drift  is  like  the  drift  of  the  sea  :  you  think  you  have  just 
struck  out  a  few  arms'  lengths  from  the  shore  ;  you  think  it  is 
close  behind  you  there,  and  that  you  can  turn  back  to  its  safety 
and  rest  at  any  minute ;  you  would  n't  else  have  cast  yourself 
into  the  waves.  But  you  are  floating,  floating  ;  and  the  tide  is 
setting  out ;  it  is  carrying  you  away  from  reach ;  your  safe, 
sweet  shore  is  lost ;  you  shall  never  return  to  it. 

Flip  Merriweather  had  shown  her  a  letter ;  there  had  been 
these  words  in  it :  "  Rael  did  not  stay  long  enough  to  be  spoken 
to.  He's  always  off  now.  He's  all  taken  up  at  the  parsonage." 

Was  Rael  drifting,  changing,  away  from  what  she  knew  he 
had  been  for  that  little  while  ?  Was  the  one  point  of  all  their 
lives  at  which  they  could  have  come  nearest  each  other  passed, 
leaving  only  the  vague  result  of  "  friendship,"  that  may  hold 
and  let  go  what  it  will  1 

She  had  done  it  herself.  She  had  put  all  those  chances 
between.  She  had  told  him,  with  that  marked  reservation, 
that  he  might  be  her  friend. 


882  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 

She  wondered  if  Fellaiden  itself  were  there  yet,  just  that 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  off,  —  Fellaiden,  with  the  snows  upon 
it,  as  she  had  wished  that  she  might  see  it  ] 

She  wondered  if  next  summer  Miss  Ammah  would,  by  any 
possibility,  ask  her  again;  and  if  not,  what  would  ever  come 
of  all  the  last  summer, — the  only  piece  of  her  life  that  had  been 
vitally  lived. 

This  was  the  way,  of  course,  that  people  turned  into  old 
maids. 

And  then  Mother  Heybrook's  sweet,  old,  patient  voice  made 
itself  heard  again  in  the  spirit  :  "  It  don't  go  so  alwers.  The 
whole  thread  is  n't  in  any  snarl." 

What  then  1  The  thread  has  to  break  sometimes,  or  to  be 
reeled  slowly  off,  through  loops  and  catches  of  trouble,  some 
backward,  different  way.  The  thread  may  be  kept  safe ;  true, 
but  these  years  of  our  lives  are  the  winding. 


TWENTY   QUESTIONS.  383 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

TWENTY   QUESTIONS. 

MR.  KINGSWORTH  wrote  a  letter  to  Miss  Ammah  telling  her 
of  all  these  things.  "  Is  there  nothing  we  can  do  about  it  1 
...  I  feel  the  burden  of  a  power  that  I  cannot  use.  Rael 
Heybrook  is  so  proud.  .  .  .  Dear  friend,  do  you  at  all  know 
the  mind  of  Miss  Everidge?"  These  were  fragments  of  his 
sentences. 

"  That 's  a  man  that  needs  translating,"  Miss  Ammah  said 
aloud,  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room  at  the  Berkeley,  when 
she  had  read  Bernard's  three  pages.  "  I  don't  mean,"  she  cor 
rected  in  the  ear  of  vacancy,  "  interpreting,  —  though  that 's 
another  fact  to  most  minds,  —  but  taking  off  the  planet.  And 
I  'm  afraid  if  he  gets  all  the  help  that  belongs  to  him,  it  will 
happen." 

"  Take  Lyman  in  hand,"  she  wrote  back  to  her  friend.  "That 
will  ease  your  mind,  and  Rael  can't  refuse  for  his  brother.  You 
can  do  it  '  gradooal '  as  they  say  up  there.  ...  As  to  France 
Everidge's  mind,  she  has  got  to  come  toat  herself." 

At  this  moment,  Miss  Ammah  Tredgold  would  not  have  put 
one  straw  in  the  way  to  turn  Frances  Everidge's  mind  in  this 
direction  or  in  that.  She  liked  the  girl  heartily.  She  grew  on 
to  like  her  more  than  any  other  "young  person  with  character 
forming  "  that  she  could  "  get  and  give  with."  But  France 
was  getting  more  than  belonged  to  her. 

Why  should  it  be  both  of  them  1     Either  would  have  done 
munificently.     "And  if  she  should  have  the  impertinence  — 
yes,  that 's  just  the  word,  look  in  Webster  for  that !  "  she  said 
again  peremptorily  to  unretorting  silence — "not  to  take  either 
of  them ! " 

This  mood  of  Miss  Amman's  was  precisely  coincident  with 


384  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

France's  own  settling  in  her  mind  that  she  was  to  be  an  old 
maid. 

I  suppose  every  girl  has  had  some  period  in  her  life  in  which 
she  has  fixed  this  matter  in  like  manner  with  herself,  and  begun, 
as  it  were,  to  make  her  will  concerning  the  things  of  life  that 
she  has  been  interested  in,  and  the  future  disposal  of  her 
energies. 

France  could  not  believe  in  sesthetics  and  high  art  as  a  cult. 
She  had  no  distinct  Woman-Emancipation-and-Expansion  the 
ories  of  her  own  or  ready-made.  She  had  not  been  trained  to 
a  self-sacrifice  that  had  led  her  into  any  formed  plans  of  benefi 
cence  ;  and,  as  she  had  permitted  Sarell  Gately  to  deduce, 
she  was  "not  religious."  And  a  Boston  girl  must  have  some 
thing  for  an  ideal  and  a  finality.  Style  and  fashion  she  de 
spised  more  bitterly  than  they  deserved,  perhaps ;  but  it  was  the 
sort  of  style  and  fashion  that  she  had  seen. 

Do  not  think,  girl-reader,  that  I  am  asserting  or  implying 
that  in  the  world  of  wealth  and  elegance  there  are  not  women 
of  lovely  life,  who  wear  these  things  as  they  wear  their  clothes, 
because  they  are  there  to  put  on,  and  it  does  not  lie  in  their 
way  to  x\se  homespun;  but  close  to  and  intermixed  with  the 
range  of  such  lives,  that  simply  grow  where  they  were  put, 
realizing  the  greater  demand  laid  upon  them  because  their  out 
ward  things  are  made  easy  and  beautiful,  there  is  a  little  under 
world  that  makes  a  seeking  and  a  business  of  its  uprising  into 
the  externalities  in  which  alone  it  discerns  the  life  above  it, 
verily  supposing  it  to  stir  and  feel  only  in  its  cuticle  as  itself 
does ;  that  strives  for  the  putting  on,  not  the  putting  forth,  — 
for  the  raiment,  and  not  the  righteousness  that  may  be  in  the 
raiment ;  not  knowing  that  to  find  the  first  shall  be  to  have  the 
clothing  of  it  in  "  the  things  "  that  the  Father  sees  are  needful 
for  its  most  beautiful  revelation. 

A  girl  like  France  could  be  very  restless  in  this  raiment- 
seeking  world,  and  yet  not  altogether  lifted  up  and  made  alive 
in  a  higher. 

She  took  more  than  ever  to  the  society  of  Miss  Amman,  whom 
she  really  loved,  beside  that  she  represented  to  her  now  all  that 
had  at  once  blessed  and  disorganized  her,  —  represented,  also, 


TWENTY  QUESTIONS.  385 

all  chance  or  connection  for  her  yet  to  come  with  the  strange, 
sweet  life  she  had  had  one  summer  dream  of.  "  Too,"  to  use 
Mother  Heybrook's  phraseology,  she  "  sororized,"  in  her  erratic 
way,  when  the  erratic  impulse  was  upon  her,  with  the  sisters  at 
the  Pyes'  Nest,  mostly  "to  see  how  it  would  seem,"  she  pre 
tended  to  herself.  But  here  also  was  a  live  link  with  Fellaiden. 

She  was  always  ready  to  be  the  one  for  a  day  at  "  the  place," 
when  directions  were  to  be  sent  to  the  servants  there,  or  things 
that  were  done  with  were  to  be  taken  out  and  properly  be 
stowed  at  home,  and  other  things  found  and  put  together  that 
were  wanted  for  town.  On  these  days  she  often  ran  down  to 
lunch,  or  stopped  for  an  early  tea,  with  the  kind  old  Misses 
Chat  and  Bab  and  Mag.  "  I  think  one  of  these  days,"  she  said 
one  afternoon  there,  "  I  shall  set  up  for  a  Prodigal  Daughter. 
I  shall  ask  for  the  goods  coming  to  me,  and  go  to  housekeeping 
with  them.  It  is  so  nice  to  have  a  Nest.  I  don't  see  why  a 
woman  must  needs  be  married  to  have  that.  I  shall  want  to 
do  things.  I  honor  my  father  and  my  mother,  but  I  can't 
always  be  just  the  fringe  to  their  tapestry.  I  've  got  to  be 
made  into  some  kind  of  cloth  myself,  or  go  all  to  ravellings.  I 
may  turn  good,  and  take  in  paupers,  and  I  could  n't  do  that  in 
mamma's  house.  Can't  a  woman  be  an  individuality,  unless 
she  goes  into  a  profession  or  on  a  platform  or  has  a  studio  1 
Why  can't  she  have  a  vacation  for  independent  domesticity, 
without  waiting  for  all  her  dear  relations  to  die  and  leave  her 
their  money1?  I  really  do  want  to  go  to  housekeeping." 

"  It  would  be  awfully  queer  of  you,"  said  Miss  Mag,  with  her 
deep-dropping  emphasis.  "  Everybody  would  say  so  !  " 

"  Then  why  is  n't  it  exactly  three  times  queerer  for  Miss 
Chat  and  Bab  and  you?" 

"  Why !  There  are  three  of  us ;  and  you  are  one,  all  sole 
alone.  And  it  happened  for  us." 

"  Three  times  one  are  three,"  replied  France  gravely. 
"  That 's  what  I  said.  And  why  should  n't  we  make  things 
happen,  —  one  thing  as  well  as  another,  I  mean,  and  with 
out  calamities'?" 

Miss  Mag  gave  a  little  nervous  twitch,  and  said,  a  trifle  dully 
and  mechanically,  "  You  're  so  funny !  To  go  away  from  your 

25 


386  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

family,  and  have  a  house, —  without  any  family  of  your  own  ! 
I  don't  really  believe  anybody  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

Miss  Mag  did  not  in  the  least  suppose  the  girl  to  be  serious, 
but  she  always  felt  that  a  proposition  had  to  be  argued,  how 
ever  absurd,  on  the  face  of  its  own  presentation. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  have  a  house,"  persisted 
France. 

"  But  no  family  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  have  a  family." 

"  My  gracious ! "  Miss  Mag's  emphasis  was  strong  again. 
"  What  an  odd  girl  you  are  !  What  would  Chat  and  Bab  say  1 " 

"  I  could  choose  my  family, —  from  time  to  time,  or  even 
altogether.  It  might  be  part  of  my  own  family,  at  the  times ; 
or  it  might  be  out  of  the  highways  and  hedges  ;  and  then  per 
haps  it  would  have  to  be  altogether." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about ;  and  I 
guess  you  would  have  a  nest ! "  said  Miss  Mag,  glancing  around 
at  the  China  jars  and  the  easels  and  the  cloisonne  plates  and 
the  rnacrame'  fringes.  And  then  that  little  nervous  twitch  came 
again,  as  if  something  hurt  her. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  do,"  France  acquiesced  with  a  sudden 
sigh,  changing  her  mood.  "I  couldn't  make  a  nest  like  this, 

—  and  I'm  not  good  enough  for  the  other ! "  and  some  reflex 
meaning  in  her  own  words  started  a  tremble  in  her  voice  as  she 
ended. 

"  Now  you  're  in  earnest,"  said  Miss  Mag,  laying  her  hands 
and  her  knitting-work  down  in  her  lap,  with  a  half-stitch  on  the 
needles.  "  Now  you  're  queerer  than  ever !  " 

"Where  are  the  other  ladies]"  asked  France,  with  just  as 
abrupt  a  return  to  her  ordinary  manner. 

Miss  Mag  answered  her  in  a  tone  quite  as  suddenly  changed 
as  her  own.  "  Chat 's  got  one  of  her  nervous  headaches,  and 
Bab  is  sitting  with  her.  Chat  has  been  rather  miserable  lately 

—  and  —  what  did  you  half  cry  for,  France  1    You  've  set  me 
out,  and  I  can't  stop." 

And  to  France's  consternation,  Miss  Mag's  head  went  down 
recklessly  among  her  knitting  needles,  and  she  sobbed  hysteri 
cally. 


TWENTY  QUESTIONS.  387 

They  had  both  been  getting  very  queer,  certainly. 

France  was  sobered  from  whatever  had  been  whimsical  in  her 
talk;  she  was  half  ashamed  of  her  own  solicitudes  that  had 
been  under  the  nonsense,  the  solicitudes  of  her  twenty  years, 
when  here  was  this  woman  of  near  half  a  century,  not  lived 
through  or  calmed  down  from  all  her  troubles  yet.  In  the 
midst  of  this  generous  self-shame  came  the  involuntary  appli 
cation  of  a  conclusion,  whimsical  as  any,  that  there  was  no 
escape,  even  into  old  maidism. 

"  Dear  Miss  Margaret ! "  she  went  up  to  her,  and  put  her 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  What  is  it  ]  You  were  tired,  and  I 
have  worried  you.  I  'm  so  sorry  !  " 

"  Yes, —  never  mind, —  that  was  it ;  that  was  all,"  said  Miss 
Mag,  shaking  up  her  head  again,  and  making  extraordinary 
creases  —  that  could  never  have  come  from  her  way  of  sleeping, 
but  rather,  a  good  many  of  them,  from  a  way  of  not  sleeping, 
lately,  perhaps  —  in  her  limp  cheeks,  with  trying  to  laugh 
before  the  quiver  of  the  cry  was  over.  " That  was  all,  and  it's 
no  matter.  I  don't  mean  !  —  worried  me  ?  No,  you  did  n't. 
There, —  don't  say  anything  more  about  it.  If  I  talk  I  shall 
make  a  mess ;  and  it  is  n't  really  anything.  Chat  and  Bab 
would  n't  have  me  behave  so  for  the  world." 

France  could  but  let  her  compose  herself  her  own  way ;  but 
•when  she  was  composed,  and  they  had  managed  a  few  minutes' 
talk  without  any  queerness  in  it  except  the  customary  queer- 
ness  of  saying  anything  rather  than  what  is  most  vividly  in  the 
mind,  she  bade  good-by,  leaving  a  kind  message  for  the 
other  sisters,  and  walked  away  to  the  station,  meeting  Flip 
Merriweather  on  her  way  down. 

Him  she  took  by  the  hand  eagerly.  "  Could  you  turn 
round  1 "  she  asked.  "  There  is  n't  a  minute  to  spare  for  the 
five  o'clock  in ;  and  you  could  take  the  half-past  out  again.  I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

Flip  Merriweather  would  have  turned  round  if  it  had  been 
over  Niagara.  They  got  into  the  last  car,  and  took  the  last 
seat.  There  is  no  better  place  for  a  special  talk,  with  a  few 
vacant  places  between  the  talkers  and  anybody  else ;  and  this 
car  was  half  empty. 


388  ODD,   OK   EVEN? 

"  Now  I  shall  ask  you  right  out,"  said  France.  ^  "  Is  anything 
the  matter  at  the  Nest1?  What  ails  Miss  Mag1?" 

"  Go  on,"  said  Flip.  "  Ask  more  questions,  —  twenty  ques 
tions.  Perhaps  there  '11  come  one  I  can  answer.  I  don't  feel 
authorized  to  pile  in  a  whole  general  subject  till  I'm  close 
cornered.  But  I-'m  glad  you  've  begun." 

"  Is  it  Miss  Chat's  head  1 " 

"  That 's  some  way  off,  but, —  yes,  I  should  say  it  was." 

"  Is  she  very  bad  ] " 

"  She's  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  except  Bab  and  Mag. 
Don't  get  off  the  line." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  her  head  ] " 

"  'T  aint  level, —  or  was  n't." 

"  0  Philip  !    Have  they  made  any  mistake  ?    Is  it  money  1 " 

11  Yes,1'  Philip  answered  emphatically.  "  I  should  say  it  was ; 
and  now  you  are  coming  to  it.  Go  on ;  I  won't  begin  anything. 
Get  it  out  of  me,  if  you  can." 

"Tickets/"  and  of  course  France's  trip-ticket  was  at  the 
bottom  of  her  bag,  and  it  was  fully  a  minute  and  a  half  before 
it  was  found  and  the  injured  conductor  had  punched  it. 

"  Oh,  we  're  losing  so  much  time !  Do  tell  me,  Philip !  Is 
the  money  lost1?" 

"  Nothing 's  lost  when  you  know  where  it  is." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Hercules  Mining  Company.  Remember,  you  catechized 
me." 

"And  is  anything  the  matter  with  the  Hercules  Mining 
Company  1 " 

"  Yes,—  water." 

"  In  the  mine  ? " 

"And  in  the  stocks.  Thirty  cents  assessments.  No  divi 
dends.  Somebody 's  comfortable,  but  it  ain't  at  the  Pyes'  Nest." 

"  Oh,  when  did  they  buy  in  ] " 

"  When  it  was  fifty  dollars  a  share.  When  it  was  running 
up,  last  summer." 

"Now  it  is  —  ?" 

"Nought-seventy-five, —  asked.  Par  value  ten  dollars.  And 
they  want  me  to  sell  out  for  what  I  can  get.  Oh,  thunder ! " 


TWENTY   QUESTIONS.  389 

and  Flip  whisked  himself  half  round,  and  looked  out  at  the 
window. 

"  How  much  1 "  France  asked,  in  a  low,  pitiful  tone.  She 
could  not  stop  to  feel  about  it.  She  must  find  out  all  she 
could. 

"  Forty  shares  apiece.     Six  thousand  dollars." 

"  But  that  is  n't  so  very  much." 

"  Only  all  the  rest  is  in  Grau^.  Tangent,  and  now  there  ain't 
any  dividends  here." 

"  Phil !   how  are  they  managing  ] " 

"  House  mortgaged.  There, —  now  you  've  got  the  whole  of 
it.  And  I  wish  I  was  n't  in  it.  They  don't  understand  the  first 
thing,  except  that  the  money  don't  come,  and  the  assessment 
notices  do.  I  have  to  make  up  anything  I  can  for  the  minute. 
As  soon  as  I  get  into  the  house,  they  begin.  Why  did  n't  you 
begin  before  1 " 

"  How  could  I  guess  1  And  what  good  will  it  do,  now  I  have 
guessed?"  asked  France,  mournfully. 

"  I  don't  know.     Only  there  's  one  more  friend  in  it." 

When  they  got  out  at  the  Boston  station  Flip  had  just  time 
to  see  her  across  to  a  street-car,  and  run  round  to  his  own  train. 
As  they  walked  up  the  platform,  France  said, — 

"  Philip,  I  want  to  beg  your  pardon." 

"What  for?"  asked  Phil. 

"  For  not  seeing  half  the  splendid  stuff  there  was  in  you, 
when  I  saw  you  first." 

"  Miss  France,  I  want  to  thank  you." 

"What  for1?"  echoed  France,  not  stopping  to  think  of  jocose- 
ness. 

"  For  seeing  some  of  the  trash  that  was  in  me,  and  helping 
me  see  it." 

After  France  sat  down  in  the  car  her  hand  tingled  blessedly 
with  Phil's  last  hearty  pressure,  and  her  face  was  so  bright  that 
people  opposite  looked  to  see. 

She  was  thinking  of  another  parting,  months  before. 

"  There  is  a  little  bit  of  Fellaiden  down  there  before  you.  I 
wish  you  would  look  after  Phil  Merriweather  in  some  kind  way." 

Perhaps  some  time  Rael  Heybrook  would  know  how  she  had 


390  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

cared  for  his  wish;  perhaps,  through  those  letters  of  Phil's, 
something  might  have  crept  round  to  him  already. 

If  Flip  felt  like  that,  she  was  glad  they  had  a  way  of  hearing 
from  him  at  Heybrook  Farm. 

But  now,  as  she  took  her  transfer  ticket  and  the  conductor 
stopped  a  West  End  car  for  her,  the  brightness  faded  down  a 
little.  Turning  nearer  homeward,  she  turned  back  suddenly  in 
her  thought  to  her  poor  old  friends.  Poor  Miss  Chat  and  Bab 
and  Mag  ! 

Was  there  anything,  however  queer,  that  might  be  done  for 
them? 

She  thought  of  one  thing,  and  she  was  just  queer  enough  to 
try  it 


THE  PRODIGAL  DAUGHTER.  39i 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

THE   PRODIGAL   DAUGHTER. 

MR.  EVERIDGE  was  in  his  little  smoking-room.  It  occupied 
an  angle  between  the  library  and  the  back  drawing-room,  in  a 
projection  which  faced  that  of  the  conservatory,  not  counting 
among  the  main  rooms  of  the  house.  All  these  rooms  gave  free 
access  the  one  with  another,  or  could  be  shut  off  at  pleasure. 
Mr.  Everidge  had  appropriated  this  little  sanctum  with  alacrity, 
—  so  cosy,  so  withdrawn,  and  yet  so  central  at  will  to  the  life  of 
the  house. 

It  was  just  after  an  early  Saturday  dinner.  On  this  day  it 
was  the  Everidge  custom  to  return  to  more  primitive  usage, 
and  make  place  for  what  the  head  of  the  house  called  "the  old 
settlers'  Saturday  night,"  which  meant  tea  at  eight  o'clock  and 
a  little  dish  of  "private  baked  beans"  for  himself,  which  was 
so  borrowed  from,  often,  that  it  had  to  be  more  than  once  re 
plenished  from  the  kitchen.  But  on  no  account  would  the 
ladies  of  the  family  have  tolerated  a  big  platterful  all  at 
once. 

The  cook  had  been  particularly  successful  in  a  delicious  re 
past  of  abridged  courses  suited  to  the  anticipation  of  a  third 
meal.  The  family  had  also  been  alone,  and  a  day  without  guests 
was  a  boon  to  the  elders. 

"  Too,"  Mr.  Everidge  had  had  a  good  morning  down  town. 
It  had  been  one  of  the  days  when  things  ran  as  in  oiled  grooves, 
each  sliding  into  its  order,  none  crowding  or  hurrying  out  of 
place  before  another.  There  had  not  needed  to  be  any  switching 
or  siding  off,  any  bustles  of  running  up  and  backing  down.  He 
had  also  made  some  good  sales,  and  shifted  profitably  some  con 
siderable  investments. 

As  the  sun,  setting  now  more  and  more  toward  the  north, 


392 

struck  in  through  a  street  vista,  and  sent  a  yellow  beam  across 
the  small  apartment,  which  seemed,  with  the  light  clouds  of 
fragrant  smoke,  to  get  entangled  there  and  lose  its  way  out 
again,  making  a  great  deal  of  itself  in  a  mixed,  broken,  glitter 
ing  way,  Mr.  Everidge's  thoughts,  vague  and  comfortable,  were 
lit  up  in  like  dreamy,  shifting  manner,  touching  here  and  there 
some  puff  of  hopeful  plan  or  inceptive  notion  or  satisfied  recol 
lection,  and  without  need  of  concentration  to  immediate  pur 
pose,  gently  illuminating  everything  at  once  that  had  been,  was, 
or  was  likely  to  be. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  France,  giving  a  little  supereroga 
tory  tap  of  ceremony  at  the  half-open  door  from  the  library,  came 
in  upon  a  certain  timid,  special,  earnest  errand. 

Undoubtedly  the  juncture  affects,  and  effects,  much.  But 
what  accomplishes  the  juncture1? 

"  Come  in,  little  Fran',"  said  her  father  pleasedly. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  send  me  out  again,  papa  ? "  France 
asked  him,  coming  in  and  sitting  down  where  that  yellow  sun 
beam  instantly  caught  with  some  of  its  wandering  threads  among 
the  light  edge-fibres  of  her  hair  and  made  another  mixed-up 
radiance. 

"  Not  until  I  send  the  other  sunshine  out  too,"  said  Mr. 
Everidge.  "  You  two  came  in  together  at  opposite  sides.  Now 
the  place  is  about  as  full  as  it  can  hold,  or  I  care  for." 

"  You  '11  make  me  cough  and  choke  me  out  if  you  begin  on 
another  cigar,"  said  France.  "  There  's  just  enough  of  that  here 
for  me.  And  I  've  come  for  a  very  serious,  important  talk." 

France  had  the  clever  feminine  instinct  to  begin  with  a  little 
bit  of  graceful,  insignificant  tyranny,  submitting  to  which  her 
masculine  companion  would  taste  the  sweetness  of  a  chivalrous 
indulgence,  and  be  more  ready  to  prolong  and  intensify  the  ex 
perience  by  a  graver  yielding. 

"  And  it  is  n't  very  cheerful,  either.  I  must  make  haste  be 
fore  the  sunshine  goes." 

Mr.  Everidge  dropped  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  tall  cuspidor 
beside  him,  turned  further  round  toward  his  daughter,  then 
settled  himself  back  again  in  his  deep  chair  and  said  "  Begin." 

"  I  don't  know  but  you  'd  better  have  had  the  cigar,  after  all. 
I  'm  a  good  deal  frightened.  I  may  choke,  as  it  is." 


THE   PRODIGAL   DAUGHTER.  393 

-  Mr.  Everidge  put  his  hand  in  his  breast-pocket  and  drew 
forth  a  wallet.  He  was  used  to  France's  whimsical  beginnings 
when  she  wanted  money,  and  aware  that  beneath  them  was  a 
real,  invincible  dislike  to  asking  for  it. 

"  How  much  is  it,  France  1  " 

"  0  papa  !     It  is  six  thousand  dollars  !  " 

Mr.  Everidge's  eyebrows  went  up,  and  he  put  back  the  wallet. 
"  You  are  like  the  New  York  dentist  who  told  the  gentleman 
coming  in  to  pay  a  recent  bill  that  it  was  fifty-six  hundred 
dollars.  He  did  n't  carry  so  much  about  him." 

"  You  remember,  papa,  last  summer  when  you  told  me  up  at 
Fellaideu  about  your  making  all  that  silver  money,  and  that  I 
should  say  how  some  of  it  should  be  spent?  " 

"  Yes.  Did  I  promise  anything "? "  He  was  willing  to  let 
France  come  round  to  the  explanation  of  her  extraordinary  re 
quest  in  her  own  way. 

"  Only  that  I  should  have  my  share,  papa.  You  gave  Effie 
twenty  thousand  dollars  the  day  she  was  married." 

"  Yes,  in  effect.  She  will  have  the  income  of  what  is  worth 
that.  It  was  far  better  than  I  should  have  expected,  even  a 
few  months  ago,  to  be  able  to  do.  But  affairs  have  gone  won 
derfully  well  with  me  all  this  year.  Property  begins  to  stand 
for  something ;  it  is  alive  again.  And  I  have  learned  a  lesson 
from  the  depression.  I  am  securing  things  so  as  to  provide  an 
equal  portion  for  each  of  you  in  turn,  as  you  leave  me  ;  or  when 
I  leave  you,  I  hope,  a  great  deal  more." 

"  Dear  papa,  there  is  no  question  of  you  or  me  leaving  each 
other.  We  are  going  to  spend  money  together  for  ever  so  long 
yet.  So  could  n't  we  take  six  out  of  my  twenty  now,  if  we 
wanted  to  very  much  indeed  1  The  rest  would  grow  up  to 
twenty  again  before  I,  —  in  those  dozen  years,  you  know, 
papa." 

"  Unless  you  wanted  five  or  six  more  next  week,  prodigal 
daughter,"  answered  Mr.  Everidge,  much  mystified,  somewhat 
discomposed,  and  inclined  at  any  rate  to  keep  up  the  defensive 
play  of  the  subject  as  long  as  he  could. 

"  That 's  just  what  I  said  !  "  exclaimed  France.  "  I  should 
like,  for  some  things,  to  be  a  prodigal  daughter.  Only  I  would 


394  ODD,    OB    EVEN  ? 

try  to  spend  it  for  some  sort  of —  Do  you  remember  how  I  pro 
nounced  it  one  Sunday  evening  in  our  reading,  when  I  was  a 
little  girl  1 " 

Mr.  Everidge  laughed.  France  had  rendered  it  "  righteous 
living." 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  now  how  to  spell  it  any  better  1 " 
he  asked. 

"  I  could  try,  I  said.  Papa,  now  let  me  tell  you  all  about  it. 
It 's  those  dear  old  Miss  Pyes,  and  the  Nest  is  mortgaged.  And 
they  have  got  six  thousand  dollars  where  they  can't  get  it  back, 
and  the  rest  where  —  this  year  —  it  does  n't  pay  any  divi 
dends." 

"  Blessed  old  ninnies  ! "  ejaculated  Mr.  Everidge.  "  But  do 
you  suppose  they  would  take  six  thousand  dollars  from  you,  or 
me,  or  anybody  1  These  are  things  we  can't  help  people  in." 

"  There  must  be  ways,"  said  France,  "  if  people  would  take 
the  trouble  to  go  round.  There  's  poor  Mrs.  Dr.  Janway,  with 
out  any  property  but  that  land  —  and  taxes  ;  and  it 's  good  land, 
•worth  ever  so  much  to  hold  on  to,  they  say,  if  somebody  that 
could  afford  to  would  only  buy  it  !  " 

"  Yes.     There  would  be  no  end  to  these  things,  France." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  do  think  it  would  come  out,  somewhere," 
answered  the  girl,  with  eager  eyes.  "  But  of  course  it  would  n't 
be  for  one  person  to  do  all  the  things.  All  I  want  to  do  —  I 
mean,  of  course,  I  want  you  to  do  —  only  nobody  need  ever  lose 
by  it  except  me,  if  you  would  fix  it  so,  is  to  buy  —  " 

France  hesitated. 

"  Very  well,  let  us  hear  the  whole.     Buy  what  1 " 

"  A  hundred  and  twenty  shares  of  Hercules  mining  stock." 

"  Whe-e-w  !  "     Mr.  Everidge  fairly  jumped  from  his  chair. 

"  0  papa,  where  is  that  other  cigar  ?  Do  smoke  it,  and 
listen,  and  think  !  " 

Mr.  Everidge  walked  to  the  window. 

"You're  shutting  up  my  sunlight,  papa." 

"  France  !     I  hope  you  're  not  going  to  grow  'ismatic  1 " 

"  No,  papa,  jori'smatic,  if  you  '11  only  let  the  sun  shine  on  me." 
France  was  as  demure  as  a  kitten,  and  as  quick  to  play  with 
anything  ;  but  there  was  a  thrill  in  her  voice  nevertheless. 


THE   PRODIGAL   DAUGHTER.  395 

"  You  see  it  was  all  that  silver  fever,  when  it  began ;  and 
people  —  you,  papa,  made  such  sudden  money.  I  think  they 
ought  to  be  helped  out  of  it." 

"  Do  you  know  that  Hercules  stock  is  n't  worth  a  half 
penny  ] " 

"  Yes,  papa ;  but  they  don't.  And  they  've  been  paying 
assessments,  and  everything  will  be  stopped,  and  then  they  will 
know  it.  Then  you  couldn't  do  anything." 

"  Where  did  you  find  out  all  this  ?  " 

"  I  saw  they  were  in  trouble,  and  I  asked.  Philip  Merri- 
weather  knew." 

"  What  is  the  rest  of  their  money  in  ? " 

"  Grand  Tangent." 

"  That 's  good.     It  will  come  up  again." 

"  Yes,  if  they  only  had  this  six  thousand  back  for  the  mean 
while.  Papa,  don't  you  think  when  things  come  round  to  us 
so,  we  are  in  them,  whether  we  want  to  be  or  not  ? " 

Mr.  Everidge  came  over  beside  France  again.  "  Fran'," 
he  said,  "  you  are  a  good  girl ;  but  you  're  an  odd  one.  You 
don't  understand  the  relation  of  things.  You  would  turn  the 
world  topsy-turvy." 

"  I  suppose  the  right  things  would.  But  I  'm  going  away, 
papa,  now.  I  've  done  my  errand.  I  've  told  all  I  know  ;  and 
as  you  say,  it  is  n't  much.  The  things  you  know  may  make  my 
odd  out  even,"  and  she  laughed,  and  kissed  her  father,  and  left 
him,  with  a  certain  look  of  withheld  beseeching  in  her  face. 

As  she  passed  through  the  library  door,  the  little  sunbeam 
from  the  other  side,  called  back  from  its  gentle  play,  vanished 
quickly  across  its  leagues  of  earth-surface,  drawn  down  into  the 
dip  of  the  horizon  after  the  vanishing  sun. 

Mr.  Everidge  sat  in  the  twilight  and  thought  things  over. 
"  She  'a  the  only  woman  I  know  of  who  understands  how  to 
take  herself  off  before  the  word  too  much,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Whatever  else  he  said  or  remembered  —  but  why  should  we 
expect  to  know  more  about  that,  just  now,  than  France  1 


396  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

BENEDICITE. 

THE  Everidges,  while  in  town,  went  to  the  Church  of  the 
Epiphany. 

The  music  and  the  preaching  were  fine,  and  the  congregation 
was  imposing. 

France  enjoyed  the  preaching,  and  parts  of  the  music ;  but 
now  that  she  was  beginning  to  seek  a  little  more  into  the 
centres  of  things,  the  congregation,  and  even  the  choir,  often 
distracted  her.  She  liked  better,  sometimes,  to  go  with  Miss 
Ammah  to  a  quiet  little  church  on  a  side  street,  where  the  seats 
were  free,  and  the  Sunday-school  children  sang  the  Glorias  and 
Canticles.  Very  often  Philip  Merriweather  came  into  town  and 
went  with  them.  Then,  frequently,  he  and  Miss  Ammah  came 
home  with  France  to  the  Sunday  lunch.  These  were  the  arrange 
ments  that  fell  in  the  day  after  France's  talk  with  her  father 
in  the  smoking-room. 

Helen  had  gone  home  from  church  with  the  Sampson  Kay- 
nards. 

After  France  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  sacque  in  her  own 
room,  she  came  down  and  found  Miss  Tredgold  and  Phil  in  the 
library ;  the  former  with  her  feet  on  the  fender,  and  herself 
politely  only  half  occupied  with  a  book. 

"  I  want  to  try  if  I  can  make  out  the  notes  of  that  lovely 
'  Works  of  the  Lord '  they  sang  to-day,"  she  said.  "  Come  over, 
Philip,  into  the  piano-room." 

They  crossed  the  back  drawing-room,  from  which  a  narrow 
curtained  arch  led  into  the  L  end  of  the  evening-room.  The 
piano  was  opposite  in  the  alcove. 

When  France's  pure  voice  struck  the  sweet  first,  third,  and 
fifth,  as  she  tried  the  opening  words  of  the  Canticle,  and  then 


BENEDICITE.  397 

went  up  to  the  octave  upon  the  "  Praise  Him,"  dropping  down 
in  low,  accented  notes  through  fifth  and  third  with  "  And  mag 
nify,"  to  rise  again  to  the  clear,  strong  fifth  with  the  second 
"Him,"  and  return  to  the  keynote  with  the  "forever,"  the 
sounds  stole  through  to  Miss  Amrnah's  ears  and  feeling  in  such 
fashion  that  she  rose  from  her  chair,  left  her  book  in  it,  and 
moved  round  through  the  hall  into  the  evening-room.  She 
thought  she  would  like  to  hear  what  France  would  make  of  her 
chant. 

"  I  don't  know  that  that  is  quite  right,"  she  heard  her  say. 
"  I  have  n't  a  perfect  musical  memory,  or  understanding  of 
these  constructions.  But  that  is  the  expression  of  it.  Is  n't  it 
beautiful  1 " 

And  then  came  the  second  verse ;  France  had  brought  in  a 
Prayer  Book  with  her. 

"  0  ye  Angels  of  the  Lord  !  bless  ye  the  Lord  ; 
Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  forever," 

"  I  'm  rather  glad  I  have  n't  heard  these  things  all  my  life  ; 
I  suppose  I  should  have  got  too  used  to  them." 

"  It 's  queer,"  said  Phil ;  "  all  the  over  and  over  of  it,  like 
the  '  mercy  endureth  forever.'  It  seems  to  me  so  ridiculously 
that  it  does,  when  they  read  that  psalm." 

"  0  Phil,  —  but  see  how  this  begins  and  goes  through  !  See 
the  grandeur  of  it !  '  All  ye  Works,'  —  first  the  Angels  and  the 
Heavens,  then  the  '  Waters  above  the  Firmament ' ;  then  '  All 
ye  Powers,' — '0  ye  Sun  and  Moon,  and  the  Stars  of  Heaven; 
0  ye  Showers  and  Dew ;  Ye  Winds  of  God ;  0  ye  Fire  and 
Heat;  Ye  Winter  and  Summer,  ye  Dews  and  Frosts,  ye  Ice 
and  Snow  ' ;  then  the  things  the  Powers  make,  —  '  0  ye  Nights 
and  Days,  —  0  ye  Light  and  Darkness,  —  0  ye  Lightning  and 
Clouds  ' ;  and  then  it  drops  down  to  the  very  earth.  '  0  let 
the  Earth  bless  the  Lord  ! '  Then  the  high  things  on  the  earth  : 
'  0  ye  Mountains  and  Hills,'  then  the  '  Green  Things  upon  the 
Earth,'  and  then  down  into  the  earth.  '  0  ye  Wells,  0  ye  Seas 
and  Floods ' ;  and  then  the  living  things,  '  0  ye  Whales  and  all 
that  move  in  the  Waters,  —  ye  Fowls  of  the  Air,  —  ye  Beasts 
and  Cattle.'  And  at  last  the  '  Children  of  Men,'  and  amongst 


398  ODD,    OR    EVEN  ? 

them  the  '  Israel '  and  the  *  Priests  of  the  Lord,'  —  chosen  out 
of  Israel ;  and  then  see  what  is  put  last,  as  if  that  were  the 
way,  after  all,  round  to  the  Heavens  and  the  Angels  again.  '0 
ye  Servants  of  the  Lord,  —  ye  Spirits  and  Souls  of  the  Right 
eous,  —  0  ye  holy  and  humble  Men  of  Heart ! '  I  think  that 
is  the  great  '  round  and  round '  Miss  Ammah  talks  about.  And 
I  think  it  is  grand,"  she  ended,  with  her  words  slower  and 
lower,  "  to  be  anywhere  in  it." 

Then  she  struck  the  piano  again,  and  sung  the  last  three 
sentences  :  — 

"  0  ye  servants  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord  ; 

Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  forever. 
0  ye  Spirits  and  Souls  of  the  righteous,  bless  ye  the  Lord  ; 

Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  forever. 
0  ye  holy  and  humble  Men  of  Heart,  bless  ye  the  Lord  ; 
Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  forever." 

Her  voice  and  enunciation  dwelt  with  a  wonderful,  tender 
emphasis,  italicizing  that  final  apostrophe.  France  had  for 
gotten  all  about  herself ;  she  had  been  lifted  up.  It  was  the 
grandeur  of  it,  as  she  had  said. 

When  she  had  been  in  the  middle  of  her  rapid  rehearsal, 
there  had  come  another  auditor  into  the  evening-room,  —  Mr. 
Everidge,  looking  through  the  apartments  to  find  Miss  Ammah. 
He  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with  her. 

Miss  Ammah  had  hushed  him,  noiselessly,  with  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.  "  Don't  break  in  on  those  children  !  "  she 
whispered.  And  Mr.  Everidge  seated  himself  on  the  low  sofa 
beside  his  old  friend. 

So  he  heard  that  sweet,  fervent  rendering ;  fresh,  animated 
•with  a  young,  true  appreciation  ;  uttered  freely,  — just  as  freely 
as  if  it  had  been  spoken  of  some  inspiring  secular  song,  the  song 
of  a  nation,  perhaps.  And  why  not  1  Was  it  not  the  song  of 
the  Nation  of  nations  1 

But  he  had  not  found  out  so  mxich  about  his  little  Fran* 
before,  as  in  these  last  two  days. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Phil  Merriweather,  "they  mean  all 
they  sing  and  say,  — all  of  them,  — such  a  lot  of  it  ]  That 's 
what  bothers  me." 


BENEDICITE.  399 

"  It 's  all  there  to  be  meant,"  returned  France's  clear  voice. 
"  And  I  'm  glad  it 's  somewhere.  Do  you  think  they  mean  all 
they  sing  and  say  in  any  church,  all  of  them  1 " 

"No.  And  that's  why  I  hate  it,  —  or  did,  —  almost.  I 
know  they  don't  mean  it.  And  I  can't.  So  what  should  we 
keep  saying  it  for1?  It  isn't  honest." 

"  What  don't  you  mean,  Philip  ]  " 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,"  —  and  here  there  was  a  faint  rustling 
of  the  leaves  of  the  book,  —  "  this.  I  don't  want  to  be  '  among 
the  saints,'  set  up  'in  glory  everlasting.'  I'd  rather  be  among 
common  men,  down  here,  doing  something." 

"  '  Holy  and  humble  men  of  heart,' "  quoted  France,  half 
interrogatively. 

" Don't  know  about  the  first  part.  ' Men  of  heart'  is  pretty 
near  the  thing." 

"  What  if  that  is  the  glory  1" 

"WhaH" 

"  Doing  something  Helping  along.  Making  out  the  right 
eousness,  making  things  right.  Having  a  good,  strong  heart." 

"  If  that 's  it,  I  've  no  objection  to  go  in  for  it." 

"  If  that  is  it,  I  think  you  are  in  for  it." 

"  But,  glory  !  a  great  shine.     Who  wants  to  sit  and  shine  1 " 

"  I  don't  see  but  you  've  got  back  to  the  '  humble,'  then." 

"  Look  in  your  Webster  for  that,"  came  Miss  Amman's  voice 
from  the  evening-room. 

"  Are  you  there,  Miss  Amman1?     Come  and  help  us,  then." 

Mr.  Everidge's  hand  was  laid  now  on  Miss  Amman's  arm. 
"  No,"  she  answered.  "  Help  yourselves.  I  'm  resting." 

France  really  went  and  fetched  the  big  dictionary  from  the 
library. 

"  There  !  "  she  said.  " «  Humble,'  from  '  humilis,'  —  on  the 
earth,  the  ground.  That 's  where  you  want  to  be,  —  at  the 
beginning  of  things.  Now  see  what  '  holy '  says.  Here  it  is  : 
'sound,  safe,  whole.'  Don't  you  like  that?  Isn't  that  what 
we  all  like  things  to  come  round  to  1 " 

"  Dictionary-Bible  is  pretty  good,"  said  Phil.  "  But  Bible- 
brogue  ! " 

"  Let 's   find    '  glory.'  —  '  Clarus,  —  bright,    clear.'     What 's 


400  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

the  matter  with  that  1  See  here,  Philip.  I  've  just  thought. 
Wasn't  all  the  glory  in  the  New  Testament  just  making  things 
clear  and  right  and  bright!  Wasn't  the  wine  made  at  the 
wedding  '  manifesting  forth  the  glory '  ?  And  was  n't  it  the 
righteous  —  the  people  that  cared  for  the  right  and  did  it  — 
that  were  to  shine  as  the  sun  ? " 

France  Everidge  was  "  not  religious,"  and  she  could  n't  bear 
what  Philip  named  as  "Bible-brogue."  She  steered  carefully 
around  it.  But  neither  could  she  bear,  when  she  came  face  to 
face  with  it,  that  a  boy  like  Phil  should  be  growing  so  good 
and  "  splendid "  and  pretending,  or  imagining  himself,  to  be 
scouting  the  very  bestness.  Besides  all  which,  she  had  an 
intense  love  for  the  thorough  searching  through  things. 

She  slipped  the  big  dictionary  off  her  lap  upon  an  ottoman, 
and  turned  to  the  piano  again. 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  exact  notes  of  that  chant,"  she  said ;  and 
then  her  fingers  softly  touched  the  chords,  and  she  sang,  — 

"0  ye  Children  of  Men,  bless  ye  the  Lord  ; 
Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  forever. 

0  ye  holy  and  humble  Men  of  Heart,  bless  ye  the  Lord  ; 
Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  forever  !  " 

Mr.  Everidge  rose  quietly,  and  walked  away  out  of  the  even 
ing-room.  Miss  Ammah  went  round  through  the  small  draw 
ing-room,  iu  more  deliberate  evidence,  and  joined  him  in  the 
library,  where  they  had  their  little  talk.  Brief  enough,  for 
the  lunch-bell  interrupted  ;  but  nevertheless  a  good  deal  to  the 
point.  Although,  indeed,  in  the  course  of  it,  Mr.  Everidge  did 
suddenly  and  irrelevantly  propound  to  Miss  Ammah  this  ques 
tion  : 

"  I  wonder  how  all  this  great  friendship  strikes  you,  Ammah, 
between  that  girl  and  boy  ? " 

"  George  Everidge  !  he  's  seventeen  and  she  's  twenty.  There 
are  whole  lifetimes  between  them  !  and  if  not,  I  know  better ! " 

And  France's  father  said,  "So  she  is  —  twenty.  Only,  I've 
always  thought  of  her  as  such  a  child,  you  know  ! " 

The  next  afternoon,  Mr.  Everidge  drove  out  to  his  "  place," 
and  made  also  a  quiet,  friendly  call  upon  the  Miss  Pyes. 


QUIT   CLAIM.  401 


CHAPTER    XL. 

QUIT   CLAIM. 

"  I  HAVE  been  consulted,"  said  Mr.  Everidge,  who  had  care 
fully  chosen  the  leading  words  in  his  little  speech  beforehand, 
and  had  to  make  the  slightest  possible  catches  and  pauses  now 
and  then,  to  be  quite  sure  that  he  fitted  in  the  right  one,  "  in 
regard  to  —  certain  —  investments  —  which  I  was  told  you 
wanted — advice' — upon;  and  I  thought  as  I  was  out  of  town 
to-day,  I  might  as  well  ride  round  and  give  my  —  opinion  —  in 
person." 

"  You  are  so  kind,  I  am  sure  !  "  cried  Miss  Mag,  who  received 
him.  "  But  then  Chat  and  Bab  and  I  alivays  say  so  ! " 

There  are  more  difficulties  in  the  way  of  some  men  for  doing 
a  silly  thing,  than  in  that  of  most  for  doing  a  shrewd  one.  It 
is  against  all  their  antecedents,  against  the  propulsion  of  the 
whole  order  of  their  affairs.  It  is  like  a  few  drops  of  a  flowing 
stream  trying  suddenly  to  run  up-current.  If  it  were  achieved, 
even,  it  would  be  a  hazardous  thing.  It  might  originate  a 
small,  fresh  maelstrom,  into  which  new  interests  might  be  mis 
led  to  their  engulfing. 

Mr.  Everidge  had  no  intention  of  appearing  as  the  purchaser 
of  Hercules  shares.  He  not  only  would  not  let  his  left  hand 
know  what  his  right  hand,  forgetting  its  cunning,  was  about  to 
do,  but  he  could  not  even  do  it  in  a  regular,  right-handed  way. 
His  only  facility  lay  in  the  utter,  business-innocent  simplicity 
of  the  three  old  ladies. 

Chat  and  Bab  came  into  the  room,  and  Mag  reiterated  to 
them  how  kind  Mr.  Everidge  was,  and  how  she  had  been  telling 
him  that  they  always  said  so.  Miss  Mag  was  one  of  those  per 
sons  who  make  their  words  do  service  as  they  do  their  gowns, 
when  they  have  once  put  them  together ;  or  rather,  perhaps, 

26 


402  ODD.    OB   EVEN? 

who  for  fear  of  self-repetition  or  plagiarism,  are  continually 
quoting  themselves  and  giving  themselves  credit.  "  As  I  said 
the  other  day,"  —  "  As  I  was  remarking  to  So  and  So," —  became, 
in  her  formula,  "I  told  them  so,  Chat  and  Bab,"  or  "We  said 
so,  all  of  us,  Chat  and  Bab  and  I."  And  in  such  a  little  da  capo 
as  this,  it  had  to  be  again,  "  I  told  him,  Chat  and  Bab,  and  we 
do,  don't  we  1 " 

"  Thanks,"  returned  Mr.  Everidge,  with  final,  inclusive  grati 
tude.  "  And  now,  what  is  the  point,  if  you  please  1  To  buy 
or  to  sell  1 " 

"He  heard,"  Mag  further  reviewed  to  her  sisters,  "that  we 
wanted  to  —  do  something,  —  to  get  advice,  —  about  our  stocks. 
And  I  —  "  Mag  was  absolutely  in  danger  of  going  round  that 
ring  of  their  united  opinions  of  their  friend  again,  if  he  had  not 
averted  it  by  interposing  at  the  word. 

"  Oh,  stocks  !  something  already  invested,  then  1  You  must 
excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I  have  n't  very  much  time." 
And  he  half  drew  his  watch,  and  glanced  at  it. 

Miss  Chat  took  the  lead  then,  with  her  most  direct  and  busi 
ness-like  manner. 

"  It 's  those  Hercules  mines,  sir.  Good  property,  I  suppose ; 
for  we  paid  fifty  dollars  a  share  for  it.  But  it 's  expensive  hold 
ing  it,  and  we  would  like  to  change  it  if  we  could.  Only  we 
think  we  ought  to  get  a  fair  price  for  it,  and  there  does  n't  seem 
to  be  any  demand  for  it."  Miss  Chat's  speech  sounded  very 
well  to  herself,  and  she  did  not  doubt  Mr.  Everidge  was  im 
pressed  by  it.  Which  I  do  not  doubt,  either. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  meditatively,  as  if  it  were  appraisal  of  a 
tangible  commodity,  to  be  discounted  a  little,  merely,  at  the 
second  hand  or  for  temporary  depreciation.  "  It  is  n't  worth 
quite  so  much  as  it  was.  And  they  're  assessing,  I  believe." 

"  0  dear,  yes,"  said  Miss  Mag,  "  and  that 's  just  what  we 
can't  see  through,  Chat  and  Bab  and  I.  When  a  thing  's  once 
bought  and  paid  for,  what  must  you  keep  buying  it  over  again 
for?" 

"Occasionally,"  said  Mr.  Everidge,  "we  buy  an  elephant. 
And  the  elephant  has  to  be  fed." 

"  0,  I  wish  we  knew  a  man  who  wanted  to  get  up  a  menage 
rie  !  We  all  wish  so,  —  don't  we,  Chat  and  Bab  ? " 


QUIT   CLAIM.  403 

"  Of  course  I  suppose  we  must  expect  to  lose  something,  — 
selling  at  a  poor  time,"  said  Miss  Chat,  resuming  the  capable 
head  of  affairs.     "But  it  is  n't  reasonable  that  we  should  give  it 
away  ! " 

The  returns  of  internal  amusement  were  coming  in  upon  Mr. 
Everidge  so  fast  that  he  almost  felt  as  if  he  were  getting  the 
interest  of  his  possible  purchase  beforehand. 

"  Women  are  at  a  great  disadvantage  in  the  money  market," 
he  observed  gravely.  "  No  one  can  operate  successfully  who  is 
not  on  the  spot.  Would  you  be  willing  to  put  the  matter  into 
my  hands  1  or,  in  fact,  I  might  just  take  it  from  you,  by  private 
transfer,  at  once  and  here,  and  manage  it  for  myself  at  my 
leisure.  I  should  n't  care  to  appear  as  a  stockholder,  just  yet. 
It  might  affect  matters  elsewhere.  Suppose  I  purchase  of  you, 
and  while  these  assessments  go  on  I  simply  hand  over  the 
amounts  notified  to  you,  to  be  paid  in  on  your  own  account  1 " 

"  Why,  that  would  be  being  a  perfect  Angel  Gabriel,  Mr. 
Everidge !  But  then  we  always  did  say,  —  Chat  and  Bab 
and  I,  —  " 

"  I  should  n't  wish  you  to  lose  by  it,  eventually,  Mr.  Ever 
idge,"  said  sensible,  considerate  Miss  Chat.  "  Of  course,  I  sup 
pose  your  knowledge  and  opportunities,  —  the  truth  is,  we  never 
ought  to  have  meddled  with  it." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  truth,"  assented  Mr.  Everidge  cordially, 
and  relieved  to  put  his  foot  on  some  solid  fact  by  which  to 
advance  to  his  purpose.  "  And  pardon  me  —  there  are  always 
conditions  in  a  business  transaction  —  if  I  make  two  provisos  to 
our  agreement.  The  first  is,  that  it  shall  remain  absolutely 
unmentioned,  even  between  ourselves  at  any  time,  that  such 
a  transfer  has  been  made.  I  have  business  reasons  for  that. 
Never  mind  what  I  may  happen  to  do  with  it,  or  how  or  where 
it  may  turn  out  well  or  ill.  You  will  ask  me  no  questions,  and 
you  will  acquaint  no  one  with  the  matter.  And  the  second 
condition,  —  that  you  shall  positively  promise  me  you  will  never, 
on  any  inducement,  buy  into  fluctuating  fancy  stocks  again." 

"  My  gracious  !  I  should  think  not ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Bab. 
"  When  it  has  nearly  turned  us  all  into  paper  pulp,  this  time  ! 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  churned  through  a  mill.  Fluctuating!" 


404  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

"But  I  must  say  again,  now,  before  we  promise,  that  I  don't 
wish  you  to  take  a  great  risk  of  a  loss  to  yourself,  eventually, 
in  doing  this,"  repeated  Miss  Chat. 

"  I  feel  pretty  certain  I  shan't  lose  anything,"  said  Mr. 
Everidge.  "  And  I  will  tell  you  this  much  :  that  I  am  not 
acting  by  my  own-impulse  merely  in  looking  up  this  Hercules 
stock,  but  by  wish  and  advice  of  another  pretty  strong  party 
concerned.  If  I  say  too  much,  you  will  think  you  had  better 
hold  on  to  it  yourselves,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  but  I  do  assure 
you,  according  to  the  very  best  of  my  business  judgment,  I  do 
not  think  you  ladies  could  by  any  possibility  ever  make  any 
thing  out  of  it." 

Of  course  he  knew  he  was  talking  great  nonsense,  but  where 
was  the  use  of  anything  else  1  These  women  to  be  going  into 
stock  speculations  ! 

His  nonsense  was  to  them  profound  knowledge,  upon  which 
they  cast  themselves  as  upon  a  tide  that  came  in  on  purpose 
to  float  them  from  the  rocks,  while  simply  acting  for  itself 
in  its  own  regular  way.  Upon  the  deep  sea  of  vague,  intricate 
financial  possibilities  behind  it,  they  thankfully  threw  the  dan 
gerous  load  that  had  nearly  fixed  them  high  and  dry,  easily 
crediting  that  it  would  of  itself  drift  somewhere  to  somebody, 
though  they  could  float  with  it  no  longer. 

And  then  they  asked  him  about  the  Grand  Tangent. 

"  That 's  good,"  he  said,  "  though  it  may  run  a  trifle  lower 
before  it  goes  up.  I  can  easily  sell  for  you  in  that  if  you  like. 
But  there  would  be  greater  sacrifice  of  future  probable  returns 
than  in  this,"  giving  a  very  curious  pause  and  accent  befoz-e  and 
with  the  last  word.  He  held  in  his  hand  now  the  little  bundle 
of  certificates  which  Miss  Chat  had  produced  for  him  from  her 
lovely  antique  escritoire. 

"  Now  shall  I  pay  you  in  cash,  or  will  you  let  me  advise  a 
different  investment  1 " 

"  I  'm  afraid  we  must  have  some  cash,"  replied  Miss  Chat. 
"  We  have  been  cramped  lately,  and  we  shall  have  immediate 
occasion  for  about  two  thousand  dollars." 

Which  was  the  amount  secured  within  three  weeks  by  mort 
gage  on  the  Pyes'  Nest. 


QUIT  CLAIM.  405 

Mr.  Everidge  drew  a  blank  check  from  his  wallet  and  made 
it  out  at  the  pretty  escritoire.  The  very  pendent  brasses  from 
its  many  handles  seemed  to  glitter  with  a  sudden  smile  to  the 
eyes  of  Miss  Chat  and  Bab  and  Mag  as  he  did  so. 

All  around  the  room  the  little  bronzes  and  the  bright  tiles 
and  the  rainbow  china,  and  even  the  soft  gray  herons  on  the 
dado,  seemed  to  be  glittering  and  winking  and  lightening  up 
with  congratulations  to  each  other,  as  if  to  say,  "  We  are  all  at 
home  again  !  The  Pyes'  Nest  is  all  right  and  settled  again, 
and  there  's  a  satisfaction  amongst  us  ! " 

For  the  poor  Miss  Pyes  had  been  doing  all  their  little 
household  niceties  of  work  lately  with  such  dull  limpness 
under  that  often-escaping,  melancholy-feeble  protest,  "  Only 
there  's  no  sort  of  satisfaction  in  it  now  !  " 

"  Will  you  let  me  advise  for  the  remainder,  and  in  case 
you  sell  out  a  part  also  from  the  Grand  Tangent,  the  New  Eng 
land  Mortgage  Security  Company's  bonds  for  a  permanent  in 
vestment  1  And  if  you  like,  and  send  me  word  or  say  so,  I 
will  attend  to  it  at  once." 

"  Oh,  we  do  say  so,  all  of  us,  —  don't  we,  Chat  and  Bab  1 
We  always  say,  now,  there 's  nothing  like  good,  permanent 
securities."  And  Miss  Mag  looked  half  elated  with  her  achieve 
ment  of  speech,  and  half  apologetically  at  Miss  Chat  as  having 
trespassed  on  her  territories. 

But  Mr.  Everidge  had  scarcely  said  his  courteous  farewells 
and  mounted  his  horse  again  at  the  garden  gate  when  the  three 
sisters  turned  to  each  other  in  the  little  hallway  with  the  con 
founding  question,  "  What  can  we  possibly  say  about  it  all  to 
Phil  ? " 

Greatly  to  Mr.  Merri weather's  amusement  presently,  who 
knew  of  course  from  France  that  she  had  "told  papa,"  and 
that  there  was  another  friend  in  it,  and  who  had  also  caught  a 
flying  glimpse  of  Mr.  Everidge  himself  on  the  Avenue  Road, 
direct  from  the  Corner  Village,  as  the  five  o'clock  out  passed  the 
crossing  at  Vernon  Square,  they  solved  their  difficulty  by  not 
asserting  any  falsehood,  but  by  ingeniously  skipping  a  truth. 

When  Phil  came  in,  the  fire  in  the  library  was  newly  laid  up, 
and  a  perfectly  artistic  pile  of  little  logs  was  blazing.  The 


406  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

brazen  tips  of  the  folding-fender  were  scintillating  with  its  re 
flection,  the  little  circular  concave  mirrors  had  redoubled,  distant, 
dancing  lights  in  them  ;  the  dark,  polished  woods  of  the  furni 
ture  palpitated  with  bright  flickers  upon  every  protuberant 
round  ;  the  gay  autumn  leaves  in  vases  and  lovely  clusters 
against  the  walls  were  glorified  ;  it  seemed  as  if  the  herons  had 
set  their  humpy  shoulders  a  hair's  breadth  further  back  in  pure, 
sudden  pride,  and  moulted  their  gray  plumes  to  feather  them 
selves  with  moonlight.  The  oval  supper-table  was  set  under 
the  softly  shaded  lamp,  where  it  was  only  put  for  special  little 
festivals,  and  the  glass  and  silver  on  it  made  more  twinkling, 
radiating  points. 

Beside  all  which,  Miss  Bab's  eyes  twinkled,  and  Miss  Chat's 
nose,  that  was  always  sensitive  at  the  end  under  strong  emotion, 
and  Miss  Mag's  tongue. 

"  We  thought  we  'd  be  all  ready  for  you  with  a  good,  solid 
supper  and  good  news,  for  we  all  knew  you  'd  be  so  glad  to  get 
it,  Chat  and  Bab  and  I,  —  did  n't  we,  girls  1  It 's  so  extraor 
dinary  ;  it's  like  a  play,  or  the  Children  of  Israel  in  the  Red 
Sea  !  Did  n't  I  say  so,  Chat  and  Bab  1  And  did  n't  I  always 
say  there  'd  be  a  way  through  "?  And  it 's  come,  and  it 's  just 
straightened  itself  out  of  its  own  accord,  with  the  waters  stand 
ing  up  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  and  we  're  as  good  as 
over,  dryshod.  Though  it 's  no  sort  of  use  for  you  to  ask  us 
how,  for  we  don't  understand  a  bit  about  it  ourselves,  either 
of  us,  Chat  and  Bab,  do  we]  Although  Chat  did  go  into 
that  broker's  day  before  yesterday,  you  know,  and  came  out 
with  that  poor  head.  But  we've  heard  from  the  business 
to-day,  and  it 's  all  off  our  shoulders  like  Pilgrim's  bundle,  and 
you  need  n't  take  any  more  trouble  about  it,  and  there  certainly 
is  a  Providence  in  things  ;  and  there  's  Renie  coming  in  this 
minute  with  the  broiled  chicken  and  the  jollyboys,  and  I 
have  n't  given  you  a  chance  to  go  and  wash  your  hands !  " 

How  they  had  got  it  all  up  —  the  bright  fire  and  the  supper- 
table,  and  the  broiled  chicken  and  the  jollyboys,  and  the  lucid 
incoherence  of  Miss  Mag's  explanation  —  in  the  half-hour  or  so 
since  Mr.  Everidge's  departure  was  a  bird's-nest  mystery. 

But  there  it  all  was,  and  Phil  Merriweather  took  it  as  it  was 
presented. 


QUIT   CLAIM.  407 

By  a  circumlocution  of  "  your  business  man  "  instead  of  any 
mention  of  "  that  broker,"  he  generously  saved  their  consciences 
in  such  further  speech  as  was  necessary  for  a  rational  conclusion 
of  the  subject  by  a  general  account.  Meanwhile  the  ladies  left 
the  broiled  chicken  pretty  much  to  his  own  separate  discussion, 
not  guessing  in  the  least  what  an  inconsiderable  reward  of  merit 
it  was. 

Mr.  Everidge  called  France  into  his  smoking-room  that  night. 

He  put  into  her  hand  a  long  envelope  with  several  folded 
papers  in  it.  "  There,  Fran',"  he  said,  "  it  belongs  to  you. 
It 's  the  evidence  of  as  absurd  a  business  transaction  as  I  was 
ever  guilty  of  in  my  life.  But  I  think  you  and  that  preacher 
about  the  midst  of  things,  up  there  outside  of  it  all,  may  give 
me  quit-claim  now  on  the  stock-operating  account.  I  don't 
believe  there  are  three  more  such  innocent  old  geese  in  the  most 
remote  circle  of  any  influence  of  mine ! " 

He  glanced  rather  inquisitorially  at  France  when  he  touched 
her  with  that  phrase  about  the  preacher,  but  France  was  abso 
lutely  preoccupied  with  himself,  and  there  was  nothing  in  all 
her  glowing  face  but  her  tender,  exulting  joy  and  pride  in  him. 

But  after  she  had  thanked  and  kissed  him,  and  said  how 
lovely  it  would  always  be  that  the  Pyes'  Nest  had  not  gone  to 
pieces,  and  how  they  must  be  chattering  and  babbling  and  mag 
nifying  there  to-night,  it  was  surely  some  strange  thing  that 
made  France  go  away  so  quietly  into  her  own  room,  and  when 
she  had  put  by  the  papers  in  the  deepest  drawer  of  her  davenport 
lean  her  head  down  upon  the  lid  of  it,  with  her  cheek  resting  on 
its  crimson  cover,  and  say,  as  if  she  were  creeping  to  some 
sweet,  forlorn  refuge,  "  The  dear  old  gentlemen,  the  dear  old 
fathers,  are  the  best  and  the  surest,  after  all !  " 


40&  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

NUMBER   NINE. 

THERE  is  a  delightful  little  puzzle  in  everybody's  hands  just 
now,  and  I  don't  wonder  they  have  called  it  the  "  Gem." 

The  fifteen  little  numbered  blocks,  put  into  their  small  case 
in  a  mix,  with  only  one  vacant  space  to  move  to,  are  to  be 
shifted  back  and  forth,  each  to  its  single  present  opportunity, 
till  they  all  come  into  regular  count  and  order. 

Not  by  pushing  any  particular  one,  you  find  as  you  work  at 
it,  directly  and  forcibly  to  its  own  place ;  but  only  by  bringing 
each,  wherever  it  may  start  from,  into  the  next  best  possible 
situation  for  helping  the  general  train  of  movement,  or  making 
way  for  another  to  pass  on  into  a  hopeful  sequence. 

The  less  you  seem  to  hurry  Number  One,  the  more  prosper 
ously  it  comes  round  toward  its  top  corner,  and  the  more  beau 
tifully  Two  and  Three  and  the  rest  file  about,  and  slip  to  their 
comfortable  stations,  each  where  no  other  was  ever  meant  or 
may  be  allowed  to  be. 

There  is  a  point  in  this  generous  little  game  when  things 
seem  smoothly  hastening  on  the  best  and  most  obvious  princi 
ples  to  a  solution. 

There  is  a  point  in  the  mingled  affairs  of  sane  and  right- 
minded  people,  when  they  appear  to  have  got  into  such  a  line  of 
march  that  there  remains  slight  intricacy  to  straighten,  and  the 
story-puzzle  seems  coming  to  such  a  simple  end  that  it  hardly 
need  to  have  been  made  an  undertaking  of  at  all. 

Look  a  minute  at  where  the  people  we  most  care  for  are,  in 
the  purposes  and  action  of  this  small  chronicle. 

Up  in  Fellaiden,  Rael  Heybrook  is  working  for  Lyman  and 
the  old  folks,  for  the  minister  and  all  the  public  weal ;  Sarell 
Bassett  is  working  for  Rael  and  the  other  Heybrooks ;  Bernard 


NUMBER   NINE.  409 

Kingsworth  is  planning  for  Lyman,  that  so,  against  his  very 
self,  he  may  also  help  the  truth  between  France  Everidge  and 
Israel. 

France,  down  here,  reaching  her  kind  hand  to  Phil  Merri- 
weather,  the  only  one  she  knows  much  how  to  help,  and  with 
him  stretching  both  hands  toward  a  larger  help  for  the  pleas 
ant  old  Miss  Pyes,  has  done  the  "dear  old  father,"  the  brisk 
prosperous,  handsome  gentleman  not  yet  turned  the  corner  into 
his  fifties,  such  more  interior  service,  that  the  man  of  stocks 
and  exchanges,  who  is  so  proud  of  his  name  on  a  company  bond 
and  in  the  market,  doing  a  perfectly  ridiculous  and  unbusiness 
like  thing,  to  take  a  burden  off  three  old  women's  shoulders 
that  they  never  ought  to  have  taken  on,  is  learning  a  new 
schedule  of  values  not  quoted  at  any  board,  and  realizing  a  per 
centage  that  returns  only  from  a  sunken  fund. 

Miss  Amman  Tredgold,  with  some  kink  of  reserve  till  France 
Everidge  comes  to  her  own  mind,  "  stands  and  waits,"  with  the 
best  readiness,  when  her  way  opens,  but  not  a  minute  before,  to 
do  anything  for  anybody. 

According  to  the  analogy  of  the  puzzle,  such  circulation 
should  be  bringing  them  speedily  round  to  serene  self-arrange 
ment.  And  yet,  with  only  three  or  four  months,  and  a  few 
outward  changes  between  this  time  and  those  fair,  free  days 
among  the  hills,  when  it  would  have  seemed  that  they  so  held 
the  blessedest  facts  and  possibilities  of  life  in  their  own  hands 
that  they  might  hold  them  back  a  while  without  disaster, 
Rael  Heybrook  was  saying,  out  of  a  dark,  hard  compulsion,  — 
"  It  is  going  by  ;  I  have  been  a  fool  "  ;  and  France  was  aching 
waywardly  with  the  very  tenderness  of  her  insistence  that  "  the 
dear  fathers  were  the  best,  after  all !  " 

There  are  a  few  last  moves,  when  all  looks  as  if  it  should 
come  clear,  which  are  the  whole  crisis,  for  missing  or  achieve 
ment  of  the  problem.  There  are  more  lives  that  come  within 
a  haul's  breadth  of  happiness  than  were  ever  lost,  in  any  grand, 
inevitable  devastations. 

Just  now,  the  days,  the  very  hours,  came  freighted  with  hap- 
panings  that  seemed  not  momentous  in  themselves,  but  which 
bore  upon  a  secret  experience  the  more  searching  that  it  only 
half  acknowledged  itself. 


410  ODD,    OE   EVEN  ? 

Helen  Everidge  had  come  home  on  Sunday  night  to  tell  her 
father  and  mother  that  the  Kaynards  were  going  to  Washing 
ton  for  a  month,  and  wanted  her  to  go  with  them.  -  They  were 
to  leave  on  Wednesday.  This  was  decided  in  accordance  ;  and 
though  it  took  her  sister  from  her,  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  it 
was  this,  in  any  great  measure,  that  put  that  little  pathos  into 
France's  feeling. 

On  the  Monday  afternoon,  France  had  walked  round  to  the 
Berkeley,  and  found  Miss  Ammah's  trunk  in  the  middle  of  her 
sitting-room.  The  good  lady  had  had  a  letter  from  New  York, 
from  the  husband  of  an  old  friend,  begging  her  to  volunteer  a 
visit :  his  wife  was  suffering  from  nervous  malady  which  threat 
ened  serious  persistence ;  and  some  change  and  cheerful  com 
panionship  must  be  contrived  for  her,  while  exciting  and 
fatiguing  society  was  put  out  of  the  question. 

This  was  a  blow.  Miss  Ammah  had  not  been  very  satisfac 
tory  of  late,  to  be  sure.  Whatever  she  might  have  heard  from 
Fellaiden,  and  whatever  purposes  she  might  be  maturing  in  her 
own  mind  for  the  soon-coming  spring  and  her  new  home  arrange 
ments  there,  she  said  very  little  to  France  about  any  of  those 
matters;  and  France  was  singularly  unwilling  to  question. 
Miss  Ammah,  indeed,  bringing  up  her  prudence  or  her  jealousy 
for  the  absolute  right  of  things,  as  a  late  reserve,  was  really 
blocking  the  way,  like  the  contrary  Number  Nine  in  the  puzzle. 
She  left  France  to  come  to  herself  in  the  most  hardhearted  and 
immovable  manner.  If  Rael  Heybrook  wrote  to  her,  as  no 
doubt  he  did,  she  made  no  specific  mention  of  his  letters.  Yet 
she  had  to  say  something  when  France  told  her  Flip's  news, 
and  tried,  with  rather  patent  subtlety,  to  elicit  some  comparison 
of  it  with  what  Miss  Ammah  received  from  more  authentic 
sources ;  and  France  was  sure  that  she  regularly  heard  from 
Mr.  Kingsworth,  and  that  if  any  great  thing  happened,  she 
would  tell  her  of  it ;  and  withal,  she  was  Miss  Ammah,  the 
woman  of  Great  Pyramid  inches,  whose  mere  neighborhood  was 
an  upholding  in  the  most  honest  and  uncompromising  resolu 
tion  of  things,  and  who  would  understand  her  better  than  any 
body  else,  if  there  had  been  anything  to  understand,  or  if  there 
were  ever  to  happen  to  be  anything. 


NUMBER   NINE.  411 

For  Miss  Ammah  to  go  off  now  to  New  York,  to  a  fresh, 
strange  interest,  and  nobody  knew  what  new  plans,  was  as 
the  pilot  departing  in  the  midst  of  the  unknown  shallows  and 
channels. 

Yet  it  was  not  that,  either,  altogether  or  even  chiefly,  which 
made  France  lay  her  head  down  as  if  she  laid  some  hope  down 
with  it,  and  nestle  her  heart  to  that  pathetic  filial  comfort. 

Flip  Merriweather,  who  knew  how  to  catch  pickerel,  was  to 
Miss  Ammah's  immovable  Number  Nine  as  some  other  last 
little  block  that  keeps  up  a  perpetual  dance  between  those  that 
might  else  quietly  settle  to  their  relations.  He  knew  that 
France  was  always  eager  to  hear  "  about  all  the  hill-people," 
and  without  the  slightest  discrimination,  or  question  of  the 
need  of  it,  brought  her  all  Hannah  Louisa's  miscellaneous 
gossip. 

And  Sunday  night  it  had  been  this  :  — 

"  We  have  got  three  ministers  up  here,  now.  Mr.  Kings- 
worth  and  Rael  Heybrook,  and  Leonora.  They  have  picked  up 
the  whole  parish  amongst  them,  and  they  just  do  make  things 
spin.  Not  prayer  meetings,  and  that  sort  entirely;  Rael,  you 
know,  is  n't  even  converted ;  but  they  're  fixing  as  if  they 
thought  the  kingdom  was  coming,  and  there  ought  to  be  some 
kind  of  a  decent  place  for  it  to  come  in.  Leonora  has  spunked 
up  the  Sewing  Society,  and  we  Ve  earnt  new  carpets  for  the 
aisles  and  pew  strips ;  and  they  were  all  put  down  by  a  Female 
Bee  last  Friday.  And  Sunday  afternoon  there  was  a  surprise. 
Mr.  Kingsworth  began  with  a  Sunday-school  sing  at  two 
o'clock  on  purpose  to  give  folks  a  chance  to  get  through  look 
ing  and  wondering,  and  to  calm  down.  You  see  the  big  west 
window,  where  the  sun  used  to  lay  in  afternoons  in  summer 
time  before  they  had  the  blinds,  and  take  the  women's  bonnets 
fairly  off  their  heads  with  headaches,  and  put  the  men  to  sleep 
and  snoring,  and  that  lets  in  all  the  coldest  little  crack-draughts 
in  the  winter,  had  been  tacked  over  with  a  big  gray  cloth  and 
the  new  blinds  kept  shut.  It  was  nice  and  warm,  and  meeting 
was  out  early  before  dark,  and  nobody  mistrusted  anything. 
Well,  if  those  three  had  n't  been  at  it  these  weeks  back,  untack- 
ing  and  tacking  up  again  till  it  was  all  finished,  and  there,  with 


412  ODD,    OB  EVEN  ? 

the  sunshine  just  streaming  straight  on  it  and  through  the 
colors,  was  the  handsomest  picture  window  you  ever  heard  of! 
Rael  had  cut  out  the  regular  pieces,  the  squares  and  circles  and 
triangles  and  clover-shapes,  and  Leonora  Kingsworth  had  done 
the  real  drawing  work  and  the  shading  off  with  paints.  It  was 
some  new  contrivance, — a  kind  of  prepared  silk  that  gums 
right  on  to  the  glass,  and  is  thin  and  fixed  to  let  the  light 
through,  and  it 's  just  like  real  colored  glass.  The  red  and  the 
blue  and  the  yellow  and  green  were  all  in  set  figures,  corners 
to  the  panes  and  crossbars  and  Grecian  pattern  and  the  other 
things,  so  that  the  old  window-lights  never  would  know  they 
were  there.  And  up  over  the  top  they  had  got  a  new  big  half- 
circle  of  glass  all  in  one  piece,  and  that  was  done  in  beautiful 
soft  blue  and  gold  color,  and  white  for  the  sky  and  the  clouds 
and  the  glory,  and  in  the  middle  a  white  dove  flying  down,  just 
as  lovely  and  natural  !  You  know  that  window  comes  in  in  the 
square  between  the  side  pews  where  ever  so  long  ago  one  of  the 
old  stoves  used  to  stand,  before  they  had  the  big  one  down  at 
the  back  under  the  gallery.  Well,  Mr.  Kingsworth  has  put  a 
little  white  marble  table  under  the  window  and  a  white  marble 
vase  on  it,  and  that 's  where  the  baptizing  is  going  to  be.  I 
believe  half  the  children  in  the  meeting-house  were  cackling  up 
when  folks  came  out  and  had  time  to  talk  it  over.  '  Ma  !  say  ? 
was  7  ever  baptized1?  say,  ma?' 

"  I  forgot  to  name  that  they  have  put  up  weather  strips,  and 
puttied  and  painted  over,  till  the  sashes  are  all  solid  and  tight, 
and  there  's  no  wind  crevices. 

"  There  's  one  thing.  The  whole  town  says  it  will  be  a  match 
finally  between  Leonora  Kingsworth  and  Rael  Heybrook.  It 
does  beat  all,  certain,  how  those  Hey  brooks  get  along." 

"  I  wonder  she  did  n't  wind  up  with,  '  Why  don't  you  get 
along  like  those  Heybrooks  1 '  That  used  to  be  the  song,"  said 
Phil.  "  But  I  keep  her  pretty  well  filled  up  with  what  I  do 
come  across,  and  I  dare  say  she  crows  now  at  the  Heybrooks. 
That  would  just  be  Hannah  Louisa.  She  never  lets  anybody 
take  down  her  brother  Flip  but  herself." 

True  enough.  All  Phil's  smart  sayings  and  seeings  and  do 
ings  were  faithfully  retailed,  and  Fellaiden  was  full  of  his  uncon- 


NUMBER   NIXE.  413 

scions  glory.  "  He 's  forever  at  the  Everidges,"  Mrs.  Fargood 
reported.  "France  makes  everything  of  him,  though  of  course 
he 's  only  a  boy." 

Rael's  lip  went  up  when  he  heard  her  say  that.  Yet  it  had 
its  curious  effect,  put  by  and  pondered  in  his  mind.  Not  jeal 
ousy  of  a  boy  of  seventeen  in  any  shape,  not  even  as  to  the 
friendliness  which  France  was  permitting  to  become  so  estab 
lished  and  intimate.  It  lessened  in  nothing,  it  came  into  no 
sort  of  rivalry  with,  the  friendship  she  had  given  him.  But  it 
proved  one  thing,  —  her  readiness  to  be  a  friend.  What  differ 
ence  was  there,  —  Flip  Merriweather,  Lyman,  himself1? 

There  was  nothing  for  him  ever  to  presume  upon.  She  was 
his  friend,  as  the  Kiugsworths  were  his  friends.  So  and  no 
more.  But  she  belonged  and  would  belong  elsewhere  ;  and  one 
of  these  days  he  should  not  even  be  hearing  about  her,  and  his 
world  would  have  a  great  blank  in  it  that  no  beautiful  thing 
would  grow  in. 

It  had  seemed  when  Miss  Amman  bought  that  Gilley  house, 
having  France  Everidge  here  with  her  in  the  middle  of  her 
plans,  that  there  would  always  be  a  link,  always  opportunities. 
Anything  might  grow  or  come  to  pass,  and  he  could  wait  reso 
lutely  for  whatever  it  should  be. 

But  how  many  summers  Miss  Amman  had  been  here  before 
she  ever  thought  of  bringing  France  !  Next  year,  perhaps,  it 
would  be  some  strange  girl.  She  probably  knew  dozens  of 
them. 

Strangely  silent,  too,  she  was  in  her  letters.  Did  she  under 
stand,  and  know  that  it  would  never  be  of  any  use  1 

He  could  not  easily  say  anything  very  directly  of  France  him 
self,  in  his  occasional  writing,  even  if  he  had  not  felt  himself 
tacitly  put  in  check.  She  was  too  present  in  all  his  thoughts 
for  mention  of  her  to  come  readily  by  name  in  any  sentence. 

He  had  not  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  asking  France  if  he 
might  write  to  herself.  That  asking  stands  for  so  much  with 
the  plain-hearted,  primitive  New  England  youth. 

Miss  Ammah  thought  she  was  so  carefully  doing  nothing. 
That  is  a  great  mistake  in  many  cases.  To  do  nothing  may  be  to 
do  the  strongest  thing  possible,  especially  when  you  stop  short 


414  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

after  doing,  however  involuntarily  and  unintentionally,  some 
thing.  The  locomotive  stops  short,  met  by  some  obstacle  :  the 
train  it  was  drawing  smoothly  along  cannot  stop,  rushes  head 
long,  is  telescoped,  demolished. 

And  when  it  is  a  question  of  human  hearts,  the  brake  nice 
and  powerful  enough  to  adapt  its  checks  and  ensure  safety  there 
has  yet  to  be  invented. 

France  tortured  herself  with  that  girl  at  Fellaiden.  She  tried 
very  hard  not  to  hate  her. 

All  this  lovely  winter  time,  in  the  glory  of  the  snows,  in  the 
close-drawing  of  home  and  friendship  that  the  cold  and  the  iso 
lation  so  bind  and  intensify,  in  all  this  beautiful  work  that  the 
young  farmer  could  not  do  in  his  busy  summers,  —  oh,  this  girl 
was  having  a  great  deal  the  best  of  it ! 

She  knew  now  very  well  that  she  wanted  at  least  this  much 
more  of  Rael  Heybrook's  friendship  than  she  had  got,  —  that 
it  should  not  be  possible  for  any  other  woman  to  have  more 
of  it! 

Those  were  hard  weeks  that  went  by,  —  those  next  ones,  four 
or  five. 

Things  went  on  just  as  usual  around  her.  There  were  lunches, 
and  aesthetic  little  "evenings,"  —  concerts  and  oratorios, — a 
society-play  running  at  the  Museum,  and  then  Shakspeare  at 
the  Boston.  And  her  mother  was  busy  about  the  table  she  was 
to  have  at  the  regularly  recurring  Old  South  Fair.  France  had  to 
help  her  and  to  accept  invitations  and  make  calls  and  see  to  the 
children's  dresses  for  the  "  Chicken  Germans,"  and  coach  them 
with  their  serious  German,  and  their  literature  lessons  for  their 
classes  at  school,  and  be  pleased  when  her  father  brought  home 
tickets,  and  wanted  Fran'  to  go  to  the  theatres  with  him. 

She  wondered  if  all  this  was  doing  any  good  in  the  world. 

On  Sundays  she  went  to  the  Epiphany,  and  heard  words 
spoken  as  if  out  of  heaven  from  the  pulpit,  and  the  rustle  of 
silks  and  satins  in  the  pews  as  the  congregation  knelt  or  rose  ; 
and  then,  when  the  same  soft  rustle  and  the  luxurious,  warm 
fur-odors  swept  down  slowly  out  of  the  aisles,  low  snatches  of 
talk  that  floated  back  with  words  of  the  world  upon  the  very 
air  that  was  full  of  but  just  silenced  Glorias  and  Eleisons. 


NUMBER   NISTE.  415 

She  wondered  then  if  either,  or  which  of  them,  meant  any 
thing  at  all. 

There  is  not  anything  to  record,  separately,  of  these  weeks ; 
and  yet  the  times  when  there  is  nothing  to  record  are  often 
fullest,  —  fullest  even  when  it  seems  to  be  of  the  mere  ache 
of  emptiness. 

The  next  thing  was  Miss  Amman's  coming  back  in  the  latter 
days  of  February. 

She  reappeared  at  the  Berkeley,  glad  to  see  France  when  she 
came  in  to  welcome  her,  but  constrained,  almost  stiffly  quiet  at 
moments,  extremely  brief  altogether  in  her  manner,  —  the  fact 
being  that  she  was  a  painfully  puzzled  woman. 

The  puzzle  had  been  growing  upon  her.  She  had  not  known 
where  she  was  exactly,  or  where  any  of  these  others  were.  And 
yet  she  had  felt — and  by  Bernard  Kingsworth's  letter  had  found 
herself  to  be  —  "  between."  She  did  not  like  it  so  much,  in 
fact,  —  such  fact  as  this;  ordinary  things  were  easy  and  well 
enough,  —  as  she  had  done  in  theory.  She  had  got  there  quite 
accidentally.  Now  she  must  either  stay,  accepting  her  position 
and  acting  in  it,  or  break  away,  letting  things  crash,  and  leave 
the  pieces  to  pick  themselves  np. 

What  should  she  do  about  it  all  next  summer? 

And  yet  so  long  as  next  summer  stretched  itself  in  the  com 
fortable  future,  and  certain  circumstances  of  it  seemed  to  wait 
her  own  disposal,  when  she  should  have  made  up  her  mind,  she 
had  a  vague  confidence  that  she  should  feel  her  way,  or  that 
somebody  else  would  decide  something,  or  that  anyhow  the  new 
season  would  hold  some  key  in  it  to  the  complications  of  the 
old.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  next  summer  being  taken  al 
together  out  of  their  hands.  And  now  the  Hetheringhams 
wanted  her  to  make  up  her  mind  to  go  to  Switzerland  with 
them.  Mountain  life,  absolute  change,  the  grape  cure,  goats' 
milk,  chaises-a-porteur,  what  not,  —  these,  with  a  calm,  strong 
companion,  —  and  she  would  hear  of  none  else  than  Miss  Tred- 
gold,  —  were  to  be  salvation  for  the  invalid. 

Miss  Amman  hardly  believed  in  it,  yet  it  seemed  the  waiting 
spot  for  her  to  move  in.  How  could  she  leave  them  always 
to  the  reproachful  doubt  that  she  might  have  been  the  avert- 


416  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

ing  of  their  dread,  should  it  ever  confirm  itself  as  their 
calamity  1 

When  she  told  France  Everidge,  the  girl's  face  turned  per 
fectly  white. 

Then  Miss  Ammah  knew  how  far  her  kindly  mischief  had 
reached.  She  smote  inwardly  upon  her  breast ;  she  said, 
"  Lord,  help  me  !  but  what  am  I  to  do  about  it  1 "  For  she  did 
not  even  know  yet  which  way  the  mischief  lay. 

Girls  were  strange.  Something  of  that  Fellaiden  experience 
had  stayed  with  France,  had  had  its  growth  in  her,  had  been 
shaping,  changing,  declaring  her. 

Was  it  Bernard  Kingsworth's  influence,  after  all  1  And  if 
so,  was  Bernard  Kingsworth  cheating  himself,  holding  back 
now  in  his  turn  for  Rael  Heybrook  1 

How  could  she  dare  move  hand  or  foot  in  such  a  midst  as 
this] 

France  Everidge  must  move  herself.  That  was  what  she 
had  been  saying  all  along. 

But  now  here  was  the  poor  child  precluded  from  any  oppor 
tunity  for  moving,  even  if  that  question  as  to  her  own,  Miss 
Ammah 's,  further  acting  in  her  present  conscious  knowledge  of 
what  she  had  already  done,  could  have  been  decided  freely. 
There  would  have  been  but  one  way  for  that.  It  must  have 
been  done  with  openness  toward  those  who  had  nearer  interest 
and  authority.  And  what  was  there  clearly  to  make  known  to 
them1?  And  of  what  use  was  it  to  think  about  it  now  at  alii 

Number  Nine,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  was  in  a  hard, 
wrong  corner. 

For  France,  she  was  simply  down  from  her  "  high  place." 

She  knew  now  that  she  had  not  been  strong  enough  to  grasp 
the  highest,  when  she  had  been  lifted  close  beside  it ;  that  she 
had  let  go,  with  a  half  hold,  with  a  poor,  timid,  half  mind, 
neither  world-weaned  nor  world-satisfied  ;  and  she  lay  bruised 
and  hurt,  and  only  would  not  moan. 

All  that  is  a  figure.  France  was  not  down  literally,  but  up 
upon  her  feet,  lifting  herself  taller  perhaps  than  usual,  with 
that  pale,  proud  face. 

She  had   to  take  Miss   Ammah's   news  as   if  it   could   be 


NUMBER   NINE.  417 

nothing  very  much  to  her,  as  if  she  had  hoped,  expected 
nothing. 

She  had  to  walk  away  home,  to  take  home  for  granted,  and  to 
find  out  how  she  was  to  live  through  the  rest  of  these  remain 
ing  weeks  in  town,  through  the  gay  weeks  after  Easter,  when 
Helen  would  be  back,  and  the  pomp  and  vanities  flare  up  again 
•with  brief,  final  flashes,' —  how  she  should  live  through  the 
summer,  with  nothing  of  that  last,  beautiful  summer  in  it, 
and  through  all  her  life,  when  that  beautiful  time,  whose  gift 
she  had  put  lightly  by,  should  have  drifted  further  and  fur 
ther  into  a  scarce  realized  past.  She  could  feel  already  how  it 
would  seem  as  if  it  had  never  been,  and  yet  as  if  it  had  left 
nothing  that  evermore  could  be. 

None  the  less,  France  was  a  proud,  strong  girl.  There  was 
too  great  a  power  of  a  despair  in  her  for  her  to  give  up  to  this. 
She  was  too  capable  of  a.terrible  wretchedness.  It  is  the  weak 
who  give  up,  for  whom  there  is-  no  danger  that  they  shall  suffer 
hugely. 

Putting  up  her  hands,  as  it  were,  in  a  figure  again,  for  some 
blind  seizing  of  a  help,  what  strange  thing  thrust  itself  strangely 
as  into  her  grasp  ? 

Some  words  she  had  not  thought  of  since  she  had  laughed 
carelessly  when  they  were  first  uttered,  —  words  that  were  ab 
surdly  variant  from  all  her  present  mood.  They  came  up,  in 
her  mind,  as  little,  wild,  green  things,  sown  by  the  winds  long 
ago,  start  up  out  of  the  ground  after  a  storm.  How  do  we  know 
what  sends  words  back  to  us  with  no  apparent  recall  ? 

"  The  's  them  more  beans  in  the  world,"  Sarell  had  said. 

She  must  do  something. 

She  walked  fast.  She  was  walking  too  fast.  She  should  be 
home  before  she  had  had  time  to  think.  She  turned  down  a  par 
allel  street  to  that  on  which  they  were  living.  She  would  go  all 
the  way  down  to  Beacon  Street  and  back  again. 

"  Somebody 's  to  get  some  help,"  she  said  to  herself;  "or  I 
shall  die.  And  I  won't,  —  I  should  be  ashamed  to  die  !  There 
must  just  be  that  much  more  help  in  the  world,  somewhere  !  " 

Was  her  brain  playing  delirious  tricks,  with  random  words, 
around  the  central,  actual  fact  of  her  endurance  ?  or  had  she 

27 


418  ODD,   OB   EVEN? 

grasped  out  wildly,  to  find  in  her  hold  the  blessed  truth  that 
grew  there  for  her  at  the  precipice-foot,  the  Christ-bearer's  herb, 
with  the  brave,  sweet  heart  of  healing  in  it "? 

Was  it  inconceivable  that  it  should  come  to  her  so  instantly  1 

Instants  are  long;  and  again,  nothing  is  instant,  nothing 
comes  that  has  not  been  prepared  for. 

Besides,  it  was  not  the  worst  that  had  befallen  yet ;  nothing 
yet  had  happened  at  Fellaiden.  There  was  only  a  broad  blank 
before  her,  and  between  her  and  it,  instead  of  a  fair,  full  sum 
mer-time.  She  only  knew  now,  as  Miss  Ammah  did,  all  at  once 
that  it  was  over,  —  what  a  lurking  hope  there  had  been  in  the 
summer-time. 

She  was  in  the  same  world  with  her  friend  ;  the  same  grand 
measures  of  things  were  set  in  the  midst  of  it.  And  lives  may 
answer  to  lives  as  faces  answer  to  faces  in  the  water. 

Something  royal  began  to  grow  up,swiftly  in  herself,  in  the 
low,  waste  place  where  her  gladness  might  have  been. 

But  where  this  can  issue,  there  must  be  royalty  of  nature. 
Below  the  heights  a  something  wonderfully  rich  and  generous 
and  warm,  not  a  mere  stagnant,  dank,  and  noxious  swamp. 

All  nature  is  meant  to  be  so,  and  recognizes  it  by  an  instinct 
of  the  higher  that  remains ;  else  why  does  the  very  feebleness 
of  the  feeble  send  forth  its  wailing  in  the  selfsame  cry,  "  What 
shall  I  do?" 

It  was  a  heavenly  quarter  toward  which  France  was  seeking 
refuge  ;  only  a  noble  nature  would  have  been  moved  that  way. 
And  yet,  there  was  a  possible  failure  in  it ;  France,  like  so 
many  others,  was  falling  into  the  sole  mistake  of  saying,  "  There 
must  be  help  somewhere,  for  somebody,  or  /  shall  die  ! " 


THE   FREE-WILL  CHANCE.  419 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

THE   FREE-WILL   CHANCE. 

"  SHE  's  jest  as  if  she  was  a  watchin'  a  custard  pudd'n,"  said 
Sarell  to  her  spouse.  "  Ef  you  take  it  off  the  fire  a  minute  too 
soon,  it  won't  set ;  an'  ef  you  leave  it  half  a  minute  too  long, 
it  '11  cruddle." 

"  What  '11  cruddle  1 "  asked  Hollis  obtusely. 

"  Nothing.  I  don't  mean  it  shell.  Not  to  spile  f 'r  other 
folks.  But,  Hollis,  you  know  the  eave  cluzzit  that  runs  along 
our  room  an'  the  sett'n-room  attic  ]  I  want  a  board  took  down 
where  it 's  petitioned  off  between." 

"  What  fur  ] "  Hollis  inquired,  as  hopeful  of  full  elucidation 
as  usual. 

"So's't  a  mouse  might  foller  a  cat  round,"  replied  his  wife. 
"  The'  ain't  but  one  other  way  of  gitt'n  int'  that  sett'n-roora 
attic.  An'  somebody  might  want  t'  be  there,  athout  goin' 
sekewichis." 

"  I  donno  's  a  woman  c'n  do  anything  that  ain't  sekewichis," 
returned  Mr.  Bassett.  "  How  is  th'  ol'  man,  d'  y'  think,  SarelH" 

"  I  think  ef  he  bed  n't  got  a  line  out,  fast  t'  that  mile  post  'f 
ninety-nine  an'  a  foot,  an'  warn't  hangin'  onto  it,  he  'd  drop," 
said  Sarell.  "  But  it 's  wonderful  how  folks  can  hold  on  till 
they  git  there,  wherever  't  is.  I  should  n't  be  surprised  ef  he 
clumb  onto  his  feet  agin,  nor  I  should  n't  be  a  mite  surprised 
ef  he  did  n't." 

The  trying  time  of  year  had  come ;  the  first  days  of  spring 
were  maintaining  their  regular  contest  of  right  of  way  with  the 
persistent  northern  winter ;  it  was  like  life  disputing,  inch  by 
inch,  with  death  in  a  creation  that  has  the  sentence  of  death  in 
itself,  and  for  which  each  return  to  joy  and  vigor  is  like  a  hard- 


420  ODD,    OE    EVEN  ? 

won  reprieve.  Human  life  sympathizes  in  the  struggle  ;  year 
by  year,  the  old,  the  feeble,  the  inadequate,  yield  and  go  down. 
The  earth  that  opens  to  receive  the  seed  of  the  new  harvest 
opens  for  the  seed  of  the  resurrection  in  dark,  deep  graves. 

Mother  Pemble  had  said,  "  See  how  't  '11  be,  come  spring." 
Bernard  Kingsworth  had  preached,  "  Beware  of  your  wish,  your 
brooding  thought,  your  secret  waiting,  for  what  may  happen." 
It  was  happening,  seemingly,  according  to  Mother  Pemble's  evil 
prayer. 

Deacon  Newell  had  had  "  a  spell "  again.  It  came  on  sud 
denly  ;  he  had  been  "  taken  right  down,"  as  the  women  said  ; 
and  Sarell  had  had  her  hands  full,  nursing  him.  It  all  came 
upon  her. 

Perhaps  the  homely  household  simile  she  had  used  had  oc 
curred  to  her  in  respect  to  her  own  nice  judgments,  as  much  as 
in  illustration  of  Mother  Pemble's  evident  keen  restlessness. 
There  were  things  Sarell  had  fully  on  her  mind  to  say  to  Deacon 
Amb ;  but  she  had  no  wish  to  precipitate  them  upon  him, 
when  the  agitation  might  turn  the  scale  of  life  or  death,  neither 
would  she  put  it  off  till  certain  restoration  should  have  hard 
ened  his  heart.  If  the  scale  were  just  turned,  either  way,  then 
she  would  speak.  And  into  her  calculations  came  the  element 
first  introduced  among  her  motives  by  that  same  preaching  of 
the  doctrine  of  "the  midst."  She  would  fain  help  the  poor  old 
deacon's  soul  out  of  the  mire,  if  it  would  be  helped,  as  well  as 
rescue  Rael's  dollars. 

Something  else  softened  and  made  her  more  tender,  sitting 
and  watching  there  the  fallen,  worn  old  face,  with  the  lines  of  a 
lonely  selfishness  channelled  so  deep  in  it. 

"  'Most  eighty  years  ago,"  she  whispered  to  herself  in  her  own 
heart,  "his  mother  sat  and  watched  him.  The' was  n't  one  o' 
them  looks  in  him  then,  an'  it  would  'a  broke  her  heart  ef  she  'd 
had  a  dream  of  'em.  Where  do  all  the  dear  little  babies  go 
to  when  the  men  and  women  turn  out,  hard  an'  cheatin'  an' 
mean,  into  the  world  1 " 

So  one  day  when  he  seemed  to  be  growing  more  comfortable, 
and  had  taken  his  beef  tea  with  a  better  relish,  and  said  to 
Sarell,  with  a  kind  of  smile  as  if  he  had  overreached  somebody, 


THE   FKEE-WILL   CHANCE.  421 

"  I  hain't  gin  up  this  time,  hev  I,  Mis'  Bassett  1 "  Sarell  an 
swered  him,  quite  softly  and  pitifully,  "  No,  deacon,  you  ain't, 
and  that 's  why  I  want  to  say  somethin'  to  you.  Ain't  the' 
anything  you  'd  feel  better  t'  do,  suppos'n  ?  " 

"  Supposin' !  Don't  I  tell  you  I  ain't  agoin'  to  ?  My  father, 
he  lived  to  be  —  " 

"  I  guess  ef  we  all  lived  t'  be  Methus'lums,"  Sarell  interrupted, 
but  with  deliberate  speech,  "  the'^night  be  someth'n  we  couldn't 
go  back  of  t'  set  right  that  we  'd  be  glad  to  in  the  hunderd  an' 
sixty-ninth  year,  an'  that  it  would  n't  be  any  credit  to  us  with 
the  everlast'n'  account  ef  we  did,  then,  Deac'n  Newell  !  " 

"  What  ye  deac'nin'  me  s'  close  fur  ]  What  d'  ye  think  I  've 
got  t'  set  right  —  ugh  !  ugh  !  —  'xcept  this  cough  1 " 

"  We  've  all  got  someth'n,  I  said,  an'  the  time  to  do  it  is  when 
•we  ain't  frightened,  but  jest  think  it  ought  t'  be  done.  Ef  we 
hed  time  t'  set  it  right  the  last  thing,  it  might  do  f 'r  other 
folks,  when  we  could  n't  look  out  f 'r  ourselves  any  longer,  but 
it  would  n't  help  MS.  You  're  gitt'n  well  now,  deac'n.  The's 
one  more  chance  f 'r  you  t'do  a  ri'  down  hard,  han'some  thing 
o'  clear  freewill,  an'  the  chances  ain't  long  nor  strong  between 
here  an'  ninety-nine.  Ev'ry  day  is  takin'  one  more  bite  out  o' 
the  apple  afore  you  give  it  up.  Don't  offer  the  bare  core  to  the 
Lord.  He  won't  take  it." 

The  deacon  looked  at  Sarell,  startled,  angrily  ;  his  lip  twitched ; 
he  could  not  find  at  once  a  safe  word  to  answer  her  with. 

But  looking  at  her  he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes.  Something 
motherly  in  her  face,  this  young,  fresh  woman's,  and  he  an  old, 
old  man,  nobody's  care  but  his  own  except  in  the  helplessness 
that  mere  humanity  cares  for,  stirred  in  him  some  long-forgotten 
sense  —  not  thought  —  of  somebody  waiting  tenderly  to  see 
whether  he  would  be  a  good  child  again  or  not. 

He  had  never  seen  Sarell  like  that  before. 

"  You  ain't  expear'nced  religion,"  he  said  half  defiantly,  half 
wonderingly.  "  What  do  you  talk  about  the  Lord  fur  ]  " 

"  P'raps  because  the  Lord  hes  ways  t'  talk  t'  all  of  us,  ef  it 
ain't  expeeriunce,"  said  Sarell  with  a  strange,  sweet  dignity. 
"  Ef  I  hed  a  boy  o'  my  own,"  she  went  on,  something  like 
Mary's  Magnificat  lighting  her  face  with  a  hope  too  pure  and 


422  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

brave  to  be  shy  of  that  old  man  lying  there  to  be  saved,  "  I  'd 
pray  that  ef  he  lived  t'  be  eighty  he  might  never  do  a  mean 
thing ;  or  ef  he  did,  not  realizing  that  he  'd  repent  of  his  own 
accord,  so  's  t'  be  grander  'n  ef  he  hed  n't  bed  to,  I  was  kinder 
thinkin'  'bout  your  mother,  Deac'n  Amb  !  " 

The  old  man  answered  not  a  word.  Sarell  straightened  the 
bedclothes,  turned  the  fresh  sheet  smoothly  under  his  chin,  and 
•went  away. 

"  She  did  n't  know  what  had  possessed  her,"  she  told  Hollis, 
"  or  finally  what  she  had  sfiid."  "  It  did  n't  half  seem  as  ef 
't  was  myself,"  she  declared.  And  then  she  put  her  capable, 
strong  hands  on  Hollis's  shoulders,  and  laid  her  bright,  dom 
ineering  head  against  his  breast  an  instant,  with  a  tender  little 
sob. 

"  Sho  !  sho  !  "  said  Hollis,  with  pleased,  indulgent  soothing, 
stroking  her  hair.  "  It 's  all  right,  little  girl !  It  alwers  is 
all  right  when  you  take  hold,  you  know.  I  '11  resk  it." 

Deacon  Amb  lay  awake  that  night  and  thought  a  good  deal 
about  his  mother. 

She  had  died  when  he  was  yet  a  small  boy,  so  that  his  re 
membrances  of  her  were  few.  But  they  stood  forth  in  vivid 
points  on  the  far  background  of  that  first  childhood  of  his  that 
was  shut  up  and  sealed  at  ten  years  old,  when  his  stepmother, 
"  a  real  calc'latin',  drivin'  woman,"  came  to  take  possession  of 
things,  himself  included  as  a  thing  that  could  run  errands,  and 
pick  up  chips,  and  turn  the  churn  if  "  an  eye  was  had  on  him," 
from  first  daylight  till  the  work  was  done  on  churning  days. 
The  second  Mrs.  Newell  was  in  every  respect  an  helpmeet  to 
her  husband,  from  whom  Amb  inherited  that  side  of  his  char 
acter  which  was  henceforth  most  carefully  nurtured  and  de 
veloped. 

But  Uncle  Amb  remembered  to-night  the  different  teachings 
of  a  pale,  soft-speaking  woman,  whose  eyes  looked  upon  him 
again  out  of  that  morning  haze  now  that  he  turned  toward 
them  with  his  tardy  recollection.  They  had  not  looked  upon 
him  so  for  many  a  hard,  sordid  year,  in  which  he  had  had  his 
back  upon  that  old  time.  Had  they  been  waiting,  —  waiting 
all  the  while  with  that  sad  patience  ? 


THE   FREE-WILL  CHANCE.  423 

He  remembered  a  day  when  he  had  come  home  from  school 
with  another  boy's  knife  that  he  had  picked  up  in  the  play 
ground.  He  had  been  kept  in,  and  so  had  found  it  after  all  the 
rest  were  gone.  His  father  never  gave  him  knives. 

He  went  straight  to  his  mother  to  show  it  to  her.  He  re 
membered  just  how  he  had  opened  and  shut  it,  and  made  her 
look  at  the  four  blades.  It  was  "a  prime  knife"  he  told  her. 
And  then  he  remembered,  —  why  did  all  this  come  up  in  such 
a  keen  re-living  now] — just  how  her  voice  had  sounded;  it 
sounded  now  through  the  intervening  silences  and  confusions  as 
the  eyes  looked  out  of  the  dimness,  saying,  "Ambrose,  you 
should  n't  look  too  long  at  a  thing  that  is  n't  yourn." 

He  knew  just  how  he  had  argued,  —  little  shortsighted  fool, 
supposing  she  could  not  see  any  further  than  he  showed  her,  — 
that  there  had  n't  been  anybody  there,  and  he  did  n't  know  — 
certain  true  —  whose  it  was,  and  it  was  his  now  he  had  found 
it,  and  school  did  n't  keep  till  Monday  anyway,  and  he  could 
have  it  till  then. 

"  Ambrose !  "  she  had  said  to  him  again,  "  don't  keep  a  thing 
overnight,  if  you  can  help  it,  that  you  know  ain't  yourn." 

Overnight.  Should  he  have  his  mother's  eye  to  meet  in  the 
morning  if  he  did  keep  anything  overnight,  the  long  night  that 
might  drop  unawares1? 

He  had  n't  meant  to  keep  anything  overnight.  He  had  only 
meant  —  as  he  had  pleaded  for  the  knife  —  to  keep  it  a  little 
while,  to  play  with  it  just  a  little,  then  he  would  go  and  find 
the  other  boy  and  give  it  back. 

"  Ambrose ! "  he  heard  the  soft  voice  say,  with  the  tender 
eyes  still  looking  down  at  him,  "  it 's  growing  dark  already.  It 
will  be  overnight  if  you  don't  go  right  off  now." 

In  the  dozing  half-sleep  after  that,  into  which  he  fell  and  lay 
till  morning,  those  words  kept  on  sounding  over  and  over  to  him 
in  that  strange,  sweet  way  :  "  Don't  keep  it  overnight.  It  will 
be  overnight,  Ambrose,  if  you  don't  go  right  off  now." 

Until,  when  the  early  stir  in  the  house  and  some  quick  tone 
of  Sarell's  broke  up,  without  his  quite  knowing  what  had  done 
it,  his  imperfect  slumber,  and  then  it  seemed  to  him  in  the  in 
stant  of  his  waking,  that  he  was  roused  by  that  other  (sentence, 


424  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

sharply  spoken,  "  The's  one  more  chance,  Deac'n  Amb,  t'  do  it 
of  clear  freewill !  " 

Sarell  came  in  and  gave  him  some  beef  tea.  Then  she  fixed 
up  his  pillows  and  smoothed  everything  comfortably,  and  left 
him  so  again,  and  as  if  all  ministration  were  withdrawn  save 
such  as  cared  in  its  turn  for  the  weak  old  body,,  lest  by  its  losing 
needful  rest  might  be  lost  the  one  more  chance,  there  came  a 
peaceful  hush  upon  him,  and  he  slipped  off  into  a  calm  morning 
nap  with  neither  dreams  nor  voices.  He  woke  when  the  sun 
was  shining  across  into  the  bedroom  from  the  south  sitting- 
room  window  in  the  jog. 

He  felt  a  good  deal  better,  —  yes,  he  thought  he  could  get 
up  to-day. 

"  No  more  'n  y'  did  yist'day.  Only  int'  th'  elber-chair,"  Sarell 
commanded,  "  but  I  '11  fix  a  swing-board  f 'r  y'r  feet,  an'  then 
y'  c'n  be  wropped  up  an'  rolled  where  y'  c'n  see  out  the  winder ; 
or  over  int'  the  keep'n-room  finally,  ef  y'  like.  But  y'  don't  tetch 
y'r  feet  to  the  carpet,  no-way.  The's  draughts  along  the  floors, 
alwers." 

"  I  want  t'  git  t'  my  papers,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  Don'no,"  said  Sarell,  looking  at  him  a  little  anxiously. 
Something,  she  was  not  sure  what,  had  changed  the  old  man. 
Face  and  tone  were  different ;  not  sicker  or  weaker,  perhaps, 
but  different.  They  were  as  if  something  new  —  or  old  —  had 
been  called  up  in  him,  or  rather  as  if  he  were  called  away  to  it. 
He  forgot  his  furtiveness,  his  keenness,  that  had  always  marked 
his  manner  in  all  allusion  or  approach  to  his  affairs  or  his 
"  dockyments."  He  said  so  simply  to  her,  as  if  she  had  known 
all  about  them  and  him,  "  I  want  t'  git  t'  my  papers." 

"  I  don'no,"  she  repeated. 

Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  at  her  impatiently.  "  Don'no, —  don' 
no  1"  he  echoed.  "What's  all  that  fur?  Ain't  I  a  gitt'u 
better!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sarell  stoutly.  "  But  the's  two  of  'em,  all  the 
same." 

"Two  what?" 

"  Don'noes.  I  don'no 's  you  oughter ;  an'  I  don'no 's  I  oughter 
take  my  own  jedgment  about  it  —  either  way." 


THE  FREE-WILL  CHANCE.  425 

"You  took  yer  own  jedgment  p'utty  spry,  yist'day." 

"  I  'm  the  same  mind  to-day.  But  I  've  got  both  sides  o'  you 
to  think  on,  too."  And  Sarell  beat  a  retreat,  with  an  empty 
pitcher  she  had  picked  up,  into  the  kitchen. 

"  He  thinks  so,"  she  said  to  herself,  in  a  noiseless  way  of 
speech  she  had  with  lips  and  breath,  as  she  stood  there  consid 
ering,  the  pitcher  still  between  her  hands.  "An'  whatever  he 
does,  it  '11  stand  accordin'.  An'  I  ain't  told  no  lie,  either.  He 
is  better;  but  better  ain't  well.  It's  high  time  he  did  it,  ef 
that 's  what  he  means ;  an'  that  lays  between  him  'n  the  Lord, 
—  /  can't  regg'late  it.  But  t'  let  him  overdo, —  delib'rit, —  how 
sh'd  I  ever  be  sure  he  might  n't  'a  ben  gitt'n  well  ] " 

Sarell  was  not  exactly  a  prayerful  woman ;  but  there  was  a 
sense  of  something  that  might  enlighten  and  direct,  as  .she 
ejaculated  in  the  same  noiseless  fashion,  with  a  knot  in  her  eye 
brows  and  giving  a  downward  jerk  to  the  tight-clasped  pitcher, 
"  I  hope  I  ain't  got  this  fur  t'  lose  my  way  in  th'  dark  at  the 
very  wind-up !  " 

She  went  back,  pitcher  and  all. 

•"See  here,  Sarell,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  b'lieve  in  you. 
Here 's  my  keys.  Go  to  my  seckerterry  — " 

"  No,  I  can't !  "  broke  in  Sarell,  with  emphasis.  "  I  would  n't 
tetch  them  keys  f 'r  a  farm.  I  'd  sooner  fetch  the  seckerterry  t' 
you  ! " 

"  I  've  got  somethin'  t'  do, —  an'  you  've  got  t'  help  me,"  said 
the  deacon  slowly.  "  I  can't  git  in  there  myself.  I  can't  git 
up.  I've  tried.  An' it  can't  wait  —  overnight,— ? overnight, — 
because  —  you  see  —  I  'm  gitt'n  well,  I  'm  mendin';  you  said 
so  ;  an'  I  've  got  to  do  it  —  on  the  menJin'  hand." 

The  poor  old  man's  breath  was  short ;  he  had  been  drawing 
on  his  stockings,  and  trying  to  get  out  of  bed  by  himself. 
Sarell  set  down  the  pitcher  hastily,  and  came  to  him. 

"  You  've  jest  got  t'  keep  still  awhile,"  she  said,  "  an'  when 
you  're  rested,  an'  hev  hed  y'r  brandy  'n  water,  an'  some  more 
beef  tea,  you  shall  try  bein'  got  up  int'  th'  elber-chair ;  an'  ef 
that  works  we  '11  jest  roll  y'  in-  t'  the  seckerterry.  It 's  good  'n 
warm  all  the  way ;  an'  I  don't  persume  't  '11  hurt  ye.  But 
don't  you  go  t'  strainin'."  When  Sarell  pronounced  "you"  with 
three  letters  it  was  equivalent  to  quiet  italics. 


426  ODD,   OK  EVEN  ? 

The  deacon's  face  lighted  up,  and  a  gleam  of  its  old  malice 
played  across  it. 

"  Mother  Pemble  '11  be  dreadful  tickled  t'  see  me,  won't  she, 
Mis'  Bassett  1 " 

After  the  brandy  and  water  and  the  beef  tea,  the  deacon 
"guessed  he  could  walk,  after  all."  Sarell  knew  better. 

Mother  Pemble's  latch  was  up  and  the  door  ajar.  She  had  it 
left  so  a  good  deal  in  these  days  that  there  was  "  sickness  in  the 
house."  When  she  wanted  it  shut  she  could  "  speak."  When 
Mother  Pemble  "spoke,5'  it  was  "like  pursin'  a  hole  with  an 
eyelot-pin,"  Sarell  said ;  and  she  made  haste  to  shut  her  up,  in 
double  sense. 

No  doubt  she  was  "  dreadful  tickled  "  to  see  Deacon  Amb 
come  rolling  in  on  casters. 

"  Here  I  be,  Mother  Pemble,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  whose  weak 
ness  cracked  with  glee,  "a  ridin'  in  with  my  coch  'n  span.  S'pose 
y'  thought  I  'd  be  ridin'  off,  b'  this  time,  'n  th'  narrer  one-boss 
team  ]  Ain't  agoin'  t'  be  tucked  up  'n  green  bedclo'es  jest  yit, 
Mother  Pern ! " 

If  it  was  pleasure  at  his  so  far  recovery  that  lit  Mother  Pem 
ble's  eyes,  a  cloud  of  anxiety  swiftly  rose  up  in  her  face,  cover 
ing  that  expression,  which  might  in  its  turn  refer  to  the  limit 
of  it.  But  Sarell  Bassett  had  no  belief  that  it  did. 

The  anxious  look  followed  the  little  cortege  across  the  room, 
and  when  the  big  chair  was  wheeled  close  up  in  front  of  the  old 
secretary  Mother  Pemble's  head  was  lifted  forward  from  her 
pillow,  and  Sai*ell  told  Hollis  afterward  that  "ef  the'  was  ever 
jump  enough  in  a  woman's  eyes  t'  fetch  her  whole  body  after  it, 
the'  was  in  the  ol'  woman's  then.  An'  when  th'  whole  jump 
hes  t'  be  hep'  t'  the  eyes,  I  sh'd  think,"  she  said,  "  'twould  be 
wuss  'n  the  noorologer.  She  's  got  more  indoorunce  t'  the  end 
th'n  would  'a  saved  her  soul,  'n  half  a  dozen  more  o'  th'  same 
bigness,  long  ago !  " 

"  Would  old  Amb  take  'n  carry  off  them  papers,  't  the  last 
minute,  before  her  eyes  1 "  was  Mother  Pemble's  inward  alarmed 
misgiving.  She  had  never  counted,  in  all  the  calculation  and 
price-paying  of  those  years,  on  such  a  simple  thing  as  that. 


THE   FREE-WILL  CHANCE.  427 

Well,  he  would  n't  do  it ;  sick,  dying,  he  could  n't :  that  had 
been  all  her  supposition,  which  had  hardly  needed  to  state  itself. 

He  had  his  bunch  of  keys  in  his  hand.  "  That  one,"  he  told 
Sarell ;  and  Sarell  took  it  and  put  it  in  the  keyhole.  He  turned 
it  himself;  then  he  rolled  back  the  fluted  doors,  after  which  he 
lay  back  in  his  chair,  tired,  to  take  his  breath. 

Sarell  sent  a  glance  from  under  sidewise  lashes  across  the 
footboard  of  the  bedstead  as  she  stood,  and  saw  Mother  Pemble 
independent  of  her  pillows  by  at  least  two  inches'  space,  her 
lips  apart, —  two  devils,  fear  and  expectancy,  fighting  in  her 
eyes. 

"  That  creetur  knows  as  well  as  he  dooes  ev'ry  individooil 
thing  the'  is  here,"  was  Sarell's  mental  comment,  as  she  stood, 
moveless,  waiting  orders. 

"  That  middle  drawer,"  said  the  deacon  feebly,  pointing. 

Sarell  opened  it. 

"  Gi'  me  them  papers,"  said  the  old  man. 

Sarell  took  them  out,  and  put  them  into  his  hand ;  then  the 
shallow  drawer  was  empty. 

"Shet  it  up;  that'll  do,"  said  Deacon  Amb.  "Now  —  look 
in  the  —  deep  right-hand  pigeon-hole  —  under  the  led, —  it 
slides, —  an'  gi'  me — " 

There  was  a  just  perceptible  movement  in  the  bed  behind. 
Mother  Pemble  was  straight  up  when  Sarell  drifted  a  second 
look  over  upon  her ;  and  the  two  devils  in  her  eyes  were  flash 
ing  naked  swords. 

"I  was  go'n  t'  say  —  my  long  luther  wallet,"  said  the  old 
man,  in  a  dreamy,  broken  way.  "  But  never  mind,  —  I'm 
kinder  sleepy  ;  —  guess  it 's  the  brandy.  Shet  it  up  —  come 
agin  to-morrer."  His  head  dropped  back  upon  the  cushioned 
chair-top ;  his  lips  dropped  in  upon  his  toothless  jaws ;  his  jaw 
dropped  down  a  little.  The  poor  old  man  was  very  pale. 

They  rolled  him  out  again,  —  the  three  folded  papers  lying 
under  his  half-relaxed  fingers. 

In  Mother  Pemble's  eyes,  as  they  followed  him  forth  across 
her  room,  —  she  had  noiselessly  settled  herself  back  into  her 
place  again, —  there  were  two  devils  dancing  now,  expectancy 
and  triumph. 


428  ODD,   OE  EVEN  ? 

"  What  beautiful  nusses  we  air ! "  she  sneered.  She  had  to 
say  something,  upon  the  long  breath  of  her  relief. 

Sarell  interpreted  the  long  breath ;  the  words  upon  it  fell  to 
ground  without  her  heeding.  She  put  the  papers  and  the  keys 
under  the  old  man's  pillow,  and  would  not  have  him  left  alone 
again. 

That  afternoon  there  was  a  fresh  flicker  of  the  candle.  The 
deacon  called  Sarell,  made  her  bring  pen  and  ink,  and  feebly, 
himself,  drew  forth  the  documents. 

"  I'm  goin'  t'  do  it  o'  freewill,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  gitt'n  better, 
—ain't  1 1  " 

"  You  're  gitt'n  better  ev'ry  minute,  deac'n,"  answered  Sarell 
bravely ;  for  she  was  telling  the  soul-truth, —  giving  him  that 
last  chance.  Standing  in  the  midst,  there,  she  was  glad. 

"  Yes.  The  three  days  o'  grace  ain't  run  out.  'T  ain't  per- 
tested.  Filler  me  up,  Sarell." 

But  Sarell  called  Hollis.  She  would  not  have  him  go  "  off 
the  home-piece,"  to-day.  Hollis  sat  up  on  the  bed  behind  the 
pillows,  and  held  his  stout  shoulders  back  to  back  against  the 
deacon's.  Care'line  was  in  the  keeping-room,  gently  rocking  in 
her  chair.  "  When  the  's  anything  f'r  me  t'  do,  le'  me  know," 
was  her  standing  order  to  Sarell.  What  the  deacon  signed  — 
or  sighed  —  away,  meantime,  was  matter  of  ignorant  apathy  to 
her. 

The  deacon  selected  and  turned  over,  with  trembling  fingers, 
the  mortgage-deed.  He  took  the  pen  in  his  hand,  moved  it 
slowly  along  in  air  above  the  three  lines  he  had  written  upon  it 
before,  passed  it  in  like  manner  over  the  signature,  and  then 
drew  a  wavering  but  deliberate  line  beneath  his  name.  "  Now, 
you  two  must  witness,"  he  said.  "  But  —  fust  — you  take  the 
pen,  Sarell,  an'  write  —  on  them  other  two  —  what  I  tell  ye." 

Sarell  took  the  pen,  the  two  other  folded  papers  which  the 
deacon  feebly  put  toward  her,  and  the  atlas  that  she  had  laid 
for  him  on  which  to  write. 

"  For  value  received  — " 

"  'Ceived,"  said  Sarell,  writing. 

"  I  hereby  make  over  and  transfer — " 

Sarell's  pen  scratched  laboriously.  "  Fer,"  she  said,  in  about 
a  minute. 


THE   FKEE-WILL   CHANCE.  429 

"  The  herein  certificates  — 

"  Kits,"  pronolmced  Sarell  in  a  minute  more ;  but  she  had 
been  to  school  and  to  spelling-bees,  and,  it  being  a  five-syllable 
word  and  of  importance,  she  had  orthographized  correctly  ;  al 
though,  as  we  have  had  opportunity  for  observing,  she  used  the 
alphabet  with  a  somewhat  free  hand  for  ordinary  convenience. 

"  To  Israel  Welcome  Heybrook." 

That  name  went  down  as  if  it  had  been  written  some  time  of 
a  habit. 

"  Now  put  the  same  —  same  way  on  t'  other,"  and  he  watched 
her  while  she  did  it,  kneeling  down  beside  his  bed,  and  leaning 
the  old  atlas  against  it. 

"  Now  read  it  all  over,  both  on  'em." 

Sarell  read  the  words  twice. 

"  Gi'  me  the  pen." 

She  held  the  book  for  him,  and  placed  the  papers  succes 
sively.  He  signed  his  name  to  each  indorsement. 

"  Now  take  this,"  the  mortgage  deed,  "  an'  put  '  Witnessed ' 
under  what  I  've  wrote,  t'  the  left  hand.  I  'm  a  sight  better, 
Sarell,  'n  I  was  this  rnornin'  ! " 

"  You  're  an  everlastiri  sight  better,  Deacon.  You  're  most  a 
real  well  man."  And  Sarell  looked  at  him  with  that  yearning, 
motherly  look,  as  if  she  had  saved,  not  a  man  so  much  as  a 
child,  out  of  some  long,  strange  danger. 

"  But  I  don't  care,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  take  nothin'  back. 
The 's  more  't  I  c'u  hev  whole  comfort  in  now,  'f  I  git  —  when 
I  git  —  well.  An'  when  I  don't  —  There,  put  y'r  two  names 
down  there,  you  'n  Hollis,  'n  then  —  "  The  deacon  stopped. 

"You  're  doin'  too  much,  Deac'n  Amb,"  put  in  Hollis,  streak 
ing  away  something  across  his  cheeks  with  the  biggest  knuckle 
of  his  right  hand,  as  he  let  the  old  man  gently  down  with  his 
pillows,  and  came  round  to  take  the  pen  from  his  wife.  "  You 
jest  keep  quiet,  'n  we  '11  'tend  t'  ev'ry thing,  Sarell  'n  I." 

And  Sarell  shone  up  at  the  honest  fellow  through  two  bright 
blue  pools  of  water  and  sunshine,  as  she  gave  him  up  her 
place,  and  went  to  bring  the  deacon's  flaxseed  lemonade. 

After  that,  the  deacon  lay  awhile  quite  still,  with  his  hand 
over  the  three  folded  papers  which  Sarell  had  placed  together 


430  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

on  the  counterpane  before  him.  Then  he  said,  —  Hollis  had 
withdrawn,  —  "  Tell  Mr.  Bassett  t'  hitch  up,"  'n  drive  over  t' 
Hawksb'ry,  an'  see  Squire  Putt'nham,  an'  git  him  to  go  right 
into  Deane  an'  see  this  recorded.  '  Recorded?  tell  him.  Squire 
Putt'nham  '11  know ;  'n  then  to-morrow  git  word  t'  Welcome 
'n  Isril,  'n  say  't  I  want  t'  see  'em.  I  sha'  n't  git  round  there 
myself,  'n  these  east  winds,  f 'r  a  spell,  mebbe.  An'  I  kinder 
want  t'  see  it  thriew." 

Sarell  went  and  shut  the  bedroom  door.  "  Deac'n,"  she  said 
softly  and  quietly,  as  she  returned,  "  I  don't  want  t'  wear  y'  out, 
but  y'  said  someth'ii  'bout  '  more.1  Had  n't  y'  better  le'  me 
make  some  kind  o'  memmirander  'v  whatever  else  the'  is  1 " 

"  What  fur  1 "  the  deacon  demanded,  with  some  strength  of 
sharpness,  "  when  I  'm  a  gitt'n  well  1 " 

"  Folks  git  well  faster  when  th'  ain't  nothing  t'  go  askew  'f 
they  did  n't,"  said  Sarell. 

The  deacon  made  no  haste  to  answer.  "  Well,"  said  he  at 
last,  prolonging  upon  the  word  the  suspense  during  which  per 
haps  the  suggestion  was  setting  itself  in  rather  a  persuasive 
light  to  him,  in  view  of  his  not  being  able  at  present  to  handle 
over  the  leather  wallet.  "  Well,  put  it  down,  'f  ye  want  to. 
'T  won't  take  long." 

Sarell  got  a  piece  of  paper,  and  dipped  the  pen. 

"  Four  'nited  States  five  hunder'  dollar  five  p'  cents." 

"'Cents,'"  quoted  Sarell,  not  dropping  her  inflection. 
"What]" 

"  Bon's,  course,     'nited  States  Bon's." 

"  Bon's,"  repeated  Sarell  with  solid  emphasis,  notwithstand 
ing  the  dropped  "  d  "  on  the  good  solid  word. 

"Four  State  o'  New  Hampshire  five  hunder'  dollar  six  p' 
cents." 

"  Cents,  bon's,"  reiterated  the  scribe. 

"  An'  two  thous'n  dollar  "  —  he  lowered  his  voice  —  "  Hub 
an'  Tire  Railroad  bon's,  seb'n  p'  cent.  All  good  f'r  cash  'r 
inves'ments,  ary  one.  Got  things  snugged  up  jest  in  time. 
Don't  feel  much  like  speck'latin',  'r  hevin'  t'  haul  in  neither, 
'mejutly." 

The  deacon  actually  chuckled.     The  inventory  of  his  posses- 


THE   FREE-WILL   CHANCE.  431 

sions  sounded  good  to  him,  was  relishing  upon  his  lips.  The 
old  proverb  of  the  ruling  passion  has  its  foundation  in  the  law 
of  life.  Strength  comes,  when  it  will  come  for  nothing  else,  for 
what  a  human  being  has  always  been  strongest  toward. 

"  Now,  Mis'  Bassett,"  he  said,  as  she  silently  folded  up  the 
paper  and  looked  round  for  a  place  to  put  it  in,  "  You  know 
more  'u  my  wife,  or  Mother  Pemble  either.  Hold  your  tongue." 

Sarell  held  her  tongue,  as  surest  sign  she  could  continue  to 
do  it.  She  came,  still  in  silence,  to  ;the  head  of  the  bed,  lifted 
the  corner  of  the  feather  tick,  and  with  a  big  pin  from  her  side 
fastened  the  memorandum  to  the  under  mattress. 

"  What 's  that  1 "  asked  the  deacon. 

"  What  I  've  got  noth'n  t'  say  about,"  she  answered.  "  It 's 
there,  'long  o'  your  keys.  Now  I  '11  go  tell  Hollis.  The  arrant, 
I  mean."  And  she  hastened  off  to  find  her  husband  in  the 
barn.  As  she  went,  she  remarked  to  herself  in  the  free  air, 
with  a  return  of  her  natural  spirit  and  quaintness,  "Ef  I  didn't, 
—  more  'u  Care'line,  —  I  would  kerwumpuss  ;  but  Mis'  Pemble, 
what  she  don'  know  ain't  there." 


432  ODD.  OB  EVEN? 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 
MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  ULTIMATUM. 

"  HE  won't  come  agin  to-morrer,  —  n'r  nex'  day,"  said  Mother 
Pemble  to  herself. 

She  kept  quiet  all  that  afternoon.  She  put  her  latch  down, 
and  went  to  sleep.  Mother  Pemble  took  good  care  of  herself, 
and  there  were  hours  in  the  twenty-four  that  were  available  to 
her,  when  she  had  so  redeemed  them  beforehand. 

"  The'  wa'nt  nothin'  in  that  middle  drawer  but  the  mor- 
gidge  'n  them  share  stiffikits.  Them  's  nothin'  t'  me.  The 
rest 's  all  in  the  ol'  luther  wallet ;  an'  praise  be  t'  natur,  Amb 
hankers  back  t'  the  cash,  alwers,  —  sure 's  death.  I  knew  he  'd 
claw  it  in  agin,  give  him  time.  But,  land  !  ef  he  Tied  n't  hed 
time  !  I  do  dispise  speck'latin'  —  tell  it 's  thriew  with  sat's- 
fact'ry.  —  Thriew  with?  Yes,  I  guess  Amb's  thriew  with  it 
now  —  poor  ol'  soul !  Ef  he  hed  n't  ben  Ambrose  Newell,  I 
should  n't  'a  ben  — " 

Yes,  she  would ;  and  she  knew  it.  She  would  have  been 
Harriet  Pemble,  all  the  same ;  there  might  only  have  been  an 
easier  way  for  her  to  be.  It  was  the  nearest  —  that  unfinished 
sentence  in  her  mind  —  by  which  she  came  tc^  any  touch  of 
pity  or  self-excusing,  as  she  thought  these  things  all  over,  lying 
in  the  twilight,  waiting  for  her  supper,  with  the  doors  open 
through  to  where  Ambrose  lay,  waiting,  —  for  to-morrow. 

Between  four  and  five  o'clock,  while  Hollis  was  gone  to 
Hawksbury,  he  had  had  a  "  weak  spell "  again.  He  was  better 
now ;  but  they  had  only  been  able  to  give  him  the  brandy  and 
the  strong  beef  tea  at  intervals  ;  he  could  not  take  any  ordinary 
form  of  nourishment.  Supper-time  came,  and  went  by  ;  the  tray 
was  carried  into  Mother's  Pemble's  room,  and  brought  out  again ; 


MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  ULTIMATUM.  433 

the  dishes  were  washed  up  in  the  kitchen.  Hollis  Bassett  was 
to  sit  up  by  the  deacon  to-night. 

Sarell  lay  down  upon  the  keeping-rooin  lounge.  It  was  im 
possible  for  her  to  sleep.  She  had  done  ft  great  part  of  what 
she  had  come  here  to  do,  but  there  was  no  triumph  in  it.  She 
began  to  be  pitiful  and  sorry  in  her  heart,  instead  of  hard  and 
relentless,  toward  such  wretched  meanness  and  wrong ;  not 
bearing  to  feel  that  it  was  human  nature,  —  the  nature  that 
is  born,  every  day,  into  mothers'  arms,  into  the  world.  Con 
fronted  with  it,  she  would  find  herself  as  quick  and  keen  to 
detect,  as  prompt  to  scathe  and  give  battle  against,  as  ever ; 
but  it  troubled  her  now  that  it  should  be  there  for  her  to  con 
front.  The  time  had  gone  by  when  she  had  thought  with 
exultation  of  out-manoauvring  Mother  Pemble,  and  "facing  her 
down  "  with  some  clever  coup  of  discovery.  Now  she  had  come 
to  it,  this  did  not  look  beautiful  to  her.  She  had  found  some 
thing  more  beautiful,  —  to  discover  the  last  good,  instead  of 
the  last  evil,  in  a  fellow-creature,  and  to  lay  hold  of  that. 

"  I  would  n't  'a  thought,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  'd  ever  'a 
felt 's  ef  I  c'd  set  by  Deac'n  Amb ;  but  'pears  t'  me  I  actially 
could.  Ef  that  little  mite  o'  decency  in  him  'd  only  grow  up. 
It 's  like  the  baby  V  him,  th't  wa'n't  never  fairly  raised.  But 
the'  won't  be  time  now,  —  'n  this  world.  Th'  ol'  man  'v  him  's 
got  t'  die  an'  be  buried  ;  'n  ef  the'  is  any  beginning  agin,  he  '11 
hev  t'  start  awf '1  weak.  Them  things  is  turr'ble  strange,  — 
how  d'  we  know  1  —  We  start  awf '1  weak  here,  th'  best  'v  us ; 
what  ef  we  don't  reck'lect  what  we  've  starved  'n  kep'  down 
somewers  else  ?  What  'f  this  world  's  a  kind  'v  'n  ondecided 
hell,  'n  we  've  made  th'  ev'l  sperrits  of  us,  —  th'  ol'  men  'n  th' 
ol'  women,  —  where  we  was  trred  afore  1  What  sh'd  we  be  put 
here  t'  be  saved  fur,  'f  we  ain't  got  something  further  back  t'  he 
saved  from1?  —  An'  wouldn't  it  be  awful,  ef  while  we  was  a 
dealin'  with  the  dev'ls  V  one  another,  we  sh'd  be  a  chokin'  out 
the  feeble  little  se/Ferin'  angilsl" 

The  tall  clock  in  the  corner  stirred  with  the  coming  of  the 
hour.  In  three  minutes  it  would  strike.  Sarell  could  not 
remember  whether  it  had  struck  ten  or  eleven,  last.  She  had 
been  too  busy  to  think  about  the  time ;  and  the  room  had  been 
dark  when  she  lay  down  here  half  an  hour  ago. 


434  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

The  three  minutes  went  ticking  by,  so  slowly.  The  watched 
minutes  are  longer  than  the  unreckoned  hours.  When  the  first 
stroke  of  the  hammer  fell,  it  came  as  something  that  had  been 
waited  for  until  grVen  up.  Sarell  sat  upright.  Then  she 
counted  —  two,  —  three,  —  and  on  —  to  twelve. 

Care'line  was  asleep  in  the  little  parlor-bedroom,  to  which  a 
door  led  from  diagonally  opposite  the  deacon's,  the  latter  being 
at  the  back  corner,  at  right  angles  ta  the  entrance  to  the  kitch 
en.  Opposite  the  kitchen  door  was  an  east  window  where 
the  keeping-room  projected  from  the  front  building;  between 
this  window  and  the  deacon's  door  the  lounge  stood.  Beyond 
the  east  window  was  the  passage  to  Mother  Pemble's  room, 
running  past  the  great  front  chimney,  against  which  the  press- 
closet  was  divided  off  from  it.  Between  the  front  chimney  and 
the  parlor-bedroom  was  the  space  occupied  by  the  stairway 
from  Mother  Pemble's  room  into  the  little  attic.  Exactly 
across  the  keeping-room  from  this,  again,  started  the  other 
ascent,  that  turned  around  the  kitchen  chimney,  and  went  up 
to  Sarell's  chamber. 

This  geography  is  needful. 

Sarell  could  hear  Hollis  gently  snoring  in  his  chair.  She  had 
known  he  would  go  to  sleep ;  therefore,  though  she  let  him 
have  his  way,  supposing  he  was  saving  her  night's  rest,  she 
had  quietly  remained  here  when  he  thought  she  had  gone  away 
up  stairs. 

The  midnight  stillness  spread  again  where  the  deep,  ringing 
sounds  had  broken  it,  as  a  water-surface  heals  and  levels. 
Hollis's  snoring  ceased.  The  whirr  and  striking  of  the  clock 
had  penetrated  his  slumber,  and  then  the  very  fall  of  silence 
had  roused  him  up.  He  moved  in  his  chair,  and  stretched  his 
arms.  Sarell  knew  he  would  keep  awake  a  while  now. 

She  had  just  leaned  softly  back  upon  the  big  down  cushion, 
thinking  that  she  ought  to  try  and  get  a  nap  herself,  when  a 
slight,  distinct  sound  startled  her, —  a  dull,  metallic  clash,  like 
the  dropping  of  a  bunch  of  keys.  It  was  directly  overhead, 
upon  the  floor  of  that  little  keeping-room  attic.  There  was  no  . 
access  to  the  attic  but  through  Mother  Pemble's  room,  or 
through  the  eave-closet  by  means  of  the  detached  partition 
boards. 


MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  ULTIMATUM.  435 

Mother  Pemble's  door  was  fast,  and  the  cord  was  drawn 
across  the  corner  of  the  passage  without,  to  the  door-knob  of 
the  press  behind  her  chimney.  Whatever  might  be  done  with 
in,  Sarell  had  always  made  sure  of  late  that  there  was  no 
emerging ;  and  infuriated  as  the  old  lady  might  be1,  the  fact  of 
her  imprisonment  was  something  of  which  she  could  admit 
no  consciousness. 

Sarell  had  not  as  yet  availed  herself  of  the  secret  passage  she 
had  arranged ;  she  had  not  supposed  that  Mother  Pemble 
really  mounted,  herself,  to  the  attic ;  she  had  only  been  pretty 
certain  that  she  crept  about,  when  the  way  was  clear,  in  the 
lower  rooms,  and  even  —  as  indicated  by  Doctor  Fargood's  story 

—  out  beyond  the  doors.     She  had  stopped  for  the  present  this 
possibility  of  prowling,  or  of  any  conveying  away ;  for  she  was 
convinced  that  the  object  of  this  long  waiting  and  working  was 
nothing  short  of  seizing  or  making  a  chance,  at  the  right  mo 
ment,  for  "  executing  in  her  own  wrong,"  upon  Deacon  Newell's 
negotiable  property.     Also  that  she  had  found  access,  in  some 
way,  to  the  place  where  it  was  deposited.     Mother  Pemble  and 
the  "  old  seckerterry "  had  been  locked  up  too  long  together, 
not  to  be  kept  locked  now. 

But  Sarell  had  been  feeling  that  things  could  not  always 
be  so  shut  up  and  under  control.  Spring  was  approaching; 
weather  when  doors  could  not  all  be  fastened  at  night,  or 
porches  disused  and  locked,  and  the  keys  kept  back  without  in 
quiry.  A  little  further  on  than  spring,  she  knew  of  a  time  when 
her  vigilance  must  needs  be  suspended.  The  thought  of  differ 
ent,  sweet  watch  was  making  her  hate  this ;  and  yet  this  must 
not  be  abandoned,  for  right  and  friendship's  sake.  She  had  felt 
that  she  must  soon  manage  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis,  —  to 
leave  some  liberty  that  would  be  taken  advantage  of,  and  then, 
by  her  own  private  command  of  the  position,  come  literally 
down  upon  Mother  Pemble,  or  where  Mother  Pemble  ought  to 
be,  and  "  face  her  out  with  it "  in  such  a  manner  as  to  take 
away  from  her  altogether  the  shield  and  cover  of  her  supposed 
incapability. 

"  An'  when  I  'm  downright  sure  of  what  I  've  got  to  go  upon, 

—  an'  she  knows  it,  an'  can't  deny  it,  —  she 's  got  to  give  that 


436  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

room  up  vol'nterry  t'  th'  deac'n,  an'  git  well,  an'  stan'  li'ble  t' 
the  same  accountability  'a  the  rest  'v  us ;  an'  leave  Uncle  Amb, 
an'  his  conscience,  an'  the  things  on  it,  an'  his  locks  'n  keys, 
an'  the  things  under  'em,  t'  ther  own  look-out  f 'r  each  other  't 
the  end  'v  the  chapter.  'R  else,  I  '11  turn  it  all  over  t'  the 
deac'n  himself,  'n  let  him  tutor  her." 

But  now,  even  that  would  be  distasteful.  She  was  glad 
she  had  not  got  it  to  do.  Things  were  straightening  themselves. 
Spring  days  and  the  open  house  and  the  new  summer-time, 
tying  and  blessing  Sarell's  hands,  might  come  :  before  any  of 
them,  that  would  have  come  which  would  settle  all.  A  few 
days  more,  and  the  old  secretary  would  have  given  up  its 
secrets ;  it  might  stand  unlocked.  Mother  Pemble  might  get 
upon  her  feet  at  her  pleasure.  The  Tempter  would  have  flouted 
her  in  the  face  with  the  years  of  her  life  that  she  had  rendered 
up  a  sacrifice  beforehand,  and  left  her  with  her  empty  hands. 

Rael  and  his  father  would  have  their  rights  to-morrow ;  the 
memorandum  of  all  the  rest  lay  there  with  the  deacon's  keys, 
under  his  head.  Nothing  could  be  removed,  so  as  not  easily  to 
be  found  again ;  any  such  attempt  would  be  a  folly. 

Only,  Mother  Pemble  did  not  know  of  the  memorandum. 

And  now,  what  was  she  doing,  what  had  she  done,  stealing 
round  up  stairs  there,  with  her  bunches  of  keys  t 

At  this  moment,  when  she  felt  that  everything  was  absolutely 
safe,  Sarell  simply  wished  that  she  could  have  put  herself  be 
tween  the  miserable  old  woman  and  her  shame. 

She  listened.  There  was  a  creaking  sound  —  she  heard  it 
twice ;  but  it  was  a  slow  creak,  that  might  have  been  a  door 
or  a  blind  straining  in  the  March  wind,  though  she  was  per 
suaded  it  was  Mother  Pemble's  foot  upon  the  floor  above.  She 
waited  to  hear  it  upon  the  staircase,  but  there  is  a  way  of  tread 
ing  on  a  creaking  stair  that  defeats  it.  One  has  only  to  take  it 
upon  the  edge,  bearing  weight  exactly  upon  the  upright ;  and 
with  hands  and  feet,  and  no  rustling  garments,  a  slight,  wiry 
woman  may  pass  over  such  a  stairway  like  a  cat. 

Not  a  sound  told  whether  anybody  had  descended  or  not. 
But  in  a  very  few  minutes,  Mother  Pemble  coughed  comforta 
bly  and  precisely  in  her  own  room. 


MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  ULTIMATUM.  437 

Sarell  was  wise  enough  not  to  hurry.  She  sat  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  upon  the  lounge,  resting  quietly  back  upon  the  cush 
ion.  Then  she  rose  softly,  looked  in  at  the  deacon's  door,  saw 
Hollis  giving  him  his  brandy  at  the  right  time,  and  then  turned 
back  and  walked  over  to  the  open  passageway,  slipped  the  loop 
of  line  from  the  press-room  door,  and  knocked  on  Mother  Pem- 
ble's. 

Half  a  minute  of  silence,  then  she  knocked  again.  A  few  sec 
onds  more,  and  Mother  Pemble  answered  tremulously,  with  a 
just-awakened  tone,  "Care'line,  is  that  you!" 

"  No,  Missis  Pemble.  It 's  me  — Sarell.  Undo  the  latch ;  I  've 
got  someth'n  t'  tell  you." 

The  latch  went  up.  As  Sarell  entered,  Mother  Pemble  turned 
her  voice  toward  her  in  the  darkness.  "  Is  it  Ambrose  1 "  she 
asked,  with  the  conventional  pathos.  "  Is  he  gone,  poor  soul1?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  not  yet,"  Sarell  said  very  steadily.  "  I  '11  light 
y'r  candle."  And  she  made  her  way  across  to  the  bedside,  struck 
a  match,  and  lit  the  home-made  "  mould." 

Mother  Pemble  looked  at  her  eagerly,  expectantly.  In  that 
quarter  of  an  hour  she  had  been  satisfied  that  nobody  had  heard 
the  drop  of  her  keys  —  at  any  rate,  to  understand  and  place  the 
sound. 

"  Missis  Pemble,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett,  "  you  've  ben  up.  Did 
y'  want  anything!"  She  spoke  as  if  quite  of  course,  as  if 
Mother  Pemble  usually  got  up  when  she  wanted  anything,  like 
other  people. 

But  Mother  Pemble  was  as  sharp  and  cool  as  she. 

"  You  've  ben  ruunin'  o'  that  notion  a  good  while,  Mis'  Bas- 
sett.  Prewve  it." 

Sarell  looked  round  the  room  in  the  dim  light.  She  glanced 
at  each  point  in  turn ;  last  of  all,  toward  the  secretary.  Her 
eyes,  in  passing  round,  took  note  that  the  attic-stairw%y  door 
was  just  —  not  —  latched.  But  she  made  no  comment  upon 
that. 

Out  of  the  secretary-front  hung  an  inch  of  worn  green  string. 
She  knew  very  well  it  had  not  hung  so  when  they  closed  it  that 
day  before  dinner.  But  she  said  nothing  about  that. 

Round  by  the  bed  again,  she  saw  the  square  walnut  chest 


438  ODD,    OB   EVEN? 

under  the  north  window  with  its  lid  caught  upon  the  hasp. 
She  pointed  to  it. 

"  You  've  ben  up,  an'  at  that  chist,"  she  said. 

"Y'r  an  evyl-mindid  persecutor,  Sarell  Bassett,"  said  Mother 
Pemble.  "  That 's  ben  so,  I  don'  know  how  long.  Sence  las' 
time  Care'line  went  to 't  f'r  me.  She  never  shets  things." 

"It's  ben  so  f'r  less  th'n  half  an  hour.  You  lie,  Missis  Pem 
ble."  Sarell  spoke  just  as  quietly,  as  smoothly,  as  if  she  had 
said,  "You're  right,  Mrs.  Pemble." 

Mother  Pemble  began  to  cry.  "  I  lie  here,"  she  sobbed  and 
whimpered,  "  an'  you  stan'  over  me,  an'  ensult  me ;  'n  what  ef  I 
could  crawl  that  fur,  'm  I  bound  t'  let  the  whole  house  know  ? 
Ef  I  'd  ben  a  little  mite  better,  an'  hed  some  hopes  'v  myself  th't 
I  kep'  t'  myself,  for  fear  'v  disappintin'  some  folks  an'  bein'  put 
upon  be  others,  would  ye  grudge  it  t'  me,  Sarell  1  Ef  y  hed  a 
girl  o'  y'r  own,  you  'd  know  what  't  was  t'  want  t'  do  f'r  her,  an' 
save  f'r  her,  I  guess,"  said  the  wily  old  woman. 

"  Because  ther's  sech  reas'ns  an'  feelin's  in  the  world,  it 's  no 
sign  you  've  got  'em,"  Sarell  returned,  possessing  her  soul  in 
firmness. 

Mother  Pemble  was  determined  to  be  confidential,  to  the  ex 
treme  of  candor. 

"  I  'd  jest  as  lives  tell  y'  as  not,"  she  said.  "  Now,  't  Am 
brose  —  well,  poor  soul,  never  mind  him  now.  I  was  gitt'n  in- 
couridged,  an'  in  hopes  t'  tell  y'  all  some  day ;  an'  I  was  doin' 
the  best  I  could  t'  help  myself.  But  I  ain't  near  so  strong  as 
I  was." 

"  Dare  say  y'  was,  an'  dare  say  y'  ain't,"  returned  Sarell,  too 
utterly  contemptuous  to  seem  so,  or  to  move  a  line  of  her  coun 
tenance,  and  speaking  almost  in  a  monotone.  "  Don't  cit  so 
free  t'  the  strengthenin'  things,  —  milk-pitchers  an'  custard-pies 
an'  nev^laid  eggs  an'  blackberry  corjil  ;  don't  hev  s'  much  fresh 
air ;  hev  t'  depend  on  the  rubbin'  an'  the  jimnastys.  But  y' 
might,  Missis  Pemble.  Y'  might  be  free  to  all.  /  don't  want 
t'  coop  y'  up,  nor  keep  y'  down.  Ef  ye  '11  jest  come  out  as  a 
able-bodied,  responsible  woman,  y're  's  free  t'  the  eggs  an'  the 
milk  an'  the  pies  an'  the  corjil  an'  the  Lord's  sunshine  's  the 
rest  'v  us.  An'  the  same  things  we  ain't  free  to,  you  ain't ;  an' 


MOTHER  PEMBLE'S  ULTIMATUM.  439 

it 's  all  aboveboard."     Only  the  accented  words  varied  in  tone 
from  the  cool,  perfectly  quiet  monotony  of  the  speech. 

Mrs.  Pemble  answered  nothing.  She  pretended  to  be  too 
abused  and  indignant.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Sarell,  as  if 
they  had  been  the  eyes  of  an  accusing  angel.  But  she  was  se 
cretly  calculating  how  much  or  how  little  Sarell  might  know. 

"  I  've  jest  come  t'  tell  you  this,"  resumed  Sarell.  "  The 
deac'n  he  give  me  a  memirander,  yist'day,  V  all  the  money- 
papers  he  left  there  in  that  seckerterry  ;  an'  as  I  was  the  last 
one  there  with  him,  I  feel  accountable.  I  sh'll  come  back  here 
in  another  half  hour,  Missis  Pemble,  with  's  many  streps  o' 
paper  with  Sarell  Bassett  writ  acrost  'em  's  the's  keyholes  in 
that  article  'v  furuicher ;  an'  a  strep  o'  paper  '11  be  pasted  over 
ev'ry  soliterry  keyhole.  An'  nothin'  more  c'n  be  took  out,  an'  • 
nothin'  more  c'n  be  put  in.  I  might  find  y'  out,  Missis  Pemble  ; 
but  you  'd  a  grea'  deal  better  find  yr'self  out.  An'  I  'd  a  sight 
ruther  y'  would  !  " 

Sarell  put  her  hand  out,  as  she  spoke,  to  the  latch-cord,  and 
detached  it  from  the  hook  in  the  table.  She  rolled  it  over  her 
fingers  into  a  little  skein,  and  went  and  hung  it  to  a  nail  high 
up  on  the  wall.  "  I  '11  fix  it  f 'r  ye  when  I  come  back,  Missis 
Pemble.  I  'm  sorry  t'  disturb  ye,  but  this  is  got  t'  be  attended 
to.  I  '11  give  ye  a  half  hour ;  an'  the'  shan't  nothin'  enterrupt 
ye."  She  spoke  very  politely. 

She  had  reached  the  door,  and  held  it  in  her  hand,  when 
something  did  interrupt  them  both.  They  both  heard  a  quick, 
heavy  step  cross  the  keeping-room,  and  run  up  a  few  stairs  upon 
the  other  side. 

"  Sarell !  Sarell !  "  called  Hollis,  in  a  hoarsely  articulated 
whisper.  "  Don't  be  scar't,  but  come  quick.  The's  a  change  !  " 

Sarell  slid  through  the  door,  and  shut  it  hastily ;  but  even 
then  she  remembered  to  pass  the  knot  of  the  strong  fastening 
line  around  the  press-room  knob  again. 

Mother  Pemble  remained  motionless  a  minute  or  two.  "  It 's 
come,"  she  said,  and  then  hushed  herself  breathlessly,  as  if  to 
hear  whether  a  soul  took  flight. 

"  Ef  he  hed  n't  a  ben  Ambrose  Newell,  'n  ef  he  would  n't  a 
made  a. white  slave  o'  me,  an'  wore  me  out  '11  left  Care'line 


440  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

with  nobody  t'  see  after  her  — "  she  said,  and  then  left  off 
again. 

She  heard  Sarell  go  in  and  call  Care'liue  ;  then  all  the  house 
was  very  quiet.  The  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage  into  the 
keeping-room  was  shut. 

She  grew  calm.  It  was  what  she  had  known  must  happen  — 
what  she  had  looked  for.  Why  should  she  be  thrown  out  of 
her  self-possession  now  1 

11  She  can't  prewve  nothin',  an'  she  shan't  find  nothiu'.  I  ain't 
held  out  these  seven  year  t'  give  in  now.  I'll  lay  !"  That  was 
Mother  Pemble's  ultimatum. 


SAEELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT  EVEN.      441 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

SAEELL  GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT  EVEN. 

DEACON  AMBROSE  NEWELL  died  at  four  in  the  morning. 

There  were  no  last  words  upon  his  lips.  The  last  that  he 
had  spoken  had  been  two  hours  before,  when  a  slight  revival 
gave  back  a  flitting  memory  of  the  last  things  in  his  mind. 
He  died  as  he  had  lived,  among  his  money  cares.  Thanks  only 
to  Sarell  that  he  had  made  friends  of  the  Mammon  in  a  little 
at  the  end. 

"Fetch  Welcome,"  he  had  said;  "an'  Isril.  Tell  'em— it 's 
twe — nty  years  too  soon  —  I  alwers  meant  —  ef  I  was  prospered 
—  but  I  can't  talk.  She 's  got  'em.  She  done  it.  It 's  all  right. 
Only,  I  'm  feared  I  ain't  goin'  t'  live  my  time  out.  Sarell !  I 
did  it  in  thefreeivill  chance,  y'  know?  My  keys,  my  papers,  — 
give  Welcome  —  " 

Yes.  "  Give  Welcome  "  were  the  last  words ;  and  perhaps 
there  were  invisible  ones  ready  to  give  welcome  even  to  the 
poor,  starved,  dwindled  remnant  in  him  that  had  never  grown 
up  out  of  babyhood,  but  that  was  escaping  now,  when  all  that 
he  had  lived  consciously  was  dropping  down  into  the  dust. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  Sarell  came  back  into  Mother  Pem- 
ble's  room.  Care'line  was  there  now,  sitting  in  the  rocking 
chair.  She  had  shed  a  few  easy,  comfortable  tears,  —  that  duty 
was  disposed  of,  —  and  she  was  ready  for  the  calm  part  of  her 
affliction.  For  its  central  importance  also.  She  had  on  a  black 
afternoon  gown,  her  collar  was  pinned  straight,  and  a  clean 
pocket-handkerchief  lay  on  her  broad  lap.  The  neighbors, 
from  the  Centre  and  circumference,  would  be  pouring  in.  The 
house  would  be  full  and  busy  all  day  long. 

Welcome  and  Israel  would  be  here  soon  probably:  Hollis 
had  gone  over  for  them.  He  had  offered  to  take  home  on  his 
way,  the  old  wife  who  had  been  fetched  at  daylight,  who  was 


442  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

always  fetched  —  the  ghostly  word  suits  well  —  when  there  were 
details  of  death  and  burial  in  a  house.  But  Mrs.  Streakham 
had  thanked  him  in  a  surprised  way,  as  one  who  knew  no  bet 
ter.  "  The'd  be  enough  t'  do,"  she  said ;  and  settled  herself 
to  preside  over  the  whole  grim  holiday. 

She  came  and  looked  in  at  Mother  Pemble's  doorway  now. 
"  Had  n't  I  best  light  a  fire  in  the  front  parlor,  Widder  New 
ell  ] "  she  asked,  giving  Care'line  her  title,  as  an  eager  flatterer 
might  a  new-made  lord.  "  The  '11  be  lots  o'  comp'ny,  an'  y' 
won't  want  to  see  'em  all  in  here." 

"  Oh,  jest  as  you  think  best,  —  you  'n  Sarell,"  Care'line  an 
swered,  in  a  way  that  would  have  been  more  significant  of  chief- 
mournerhood  if  she  had  not,  in  the  sense  of  leaving  every 
thing  to  others,  been  a  chief  mourner  all  her  life. 

But  we  do  not  care  for  these  things.  The  result  concerns  us, 
— that  in  a  little  while  Care'line  was  sitting  in  state  in  the  front 
parlor,  and  Mother  Pemble  was  likely  at  last  to  get  her  room 
to  herself  again. 

Sarell  had  quietly  put  her  eleven  bits  of  paper  across  the 
keyholes  of  the  six  drawers  under  the  desk,  the  four  high  up 
above  it,  and  the  grooved  slide-doors  between,  of  the  old  secre 
tary.  It  was  her  own  device  ;  she  had  never  heard  of  sealed 
drawers  and  doors  before.  When  Care'line  limply  asked  her 
what  for,  she  had  just  said,  "  While  nobody  hes  any  business 
with  the  keys,  I  thought  mebbe  't  would  be  proper.  Mr.  Hey- 
brook  '11  see  to  it  by  an'  by." 

"  Oh,  how  much  he  did  think  o'  them  keys !  "  sighed  Widder 
Newell,  taking  the  word  simply  as  a  cue  to  her  own  role. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Care'line  ! "  snapped  Mother  Pemble  from 
the  bed.  Sarell  liked  her  a  little  better  for  her  non-pretence 
of  grief.  But  the  thing  Mother  Pemble  never  could  have  any 
patience  with  in  her  daughter  —  all  the  same  that  for  her  own 
ends  she  would  not  really  have  had  it  otherwise  just  now  —  was 
that  her  listlessness  reached  even  to  the  money  and  the  keys. 

When  Care'line  went  out,  Sarell  had  stopped  to  rearrange 
Mother  Pemble's  latch-cord,  and  with  some  pity  in  her  heart 
for  the  really  tired,  pale  face,  had  said,  "  I  '11  bring  you  some 
breakfast,  Missis  Pemble,  an'  then,  I  s'pose  you  '11  take  a  nap." 


SARELL  GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT  EVEN.      443 

"  Ain't  likely  t'  be  much  nappin'  'tween  you  'n  me,"  muttered 
Mother  Pemble,  as  Mrs.  Bassett  disappeared. 

When  Welcome  Heybrook  and  his  son  came,  her  latch  was 
down.  Nobody  demurred  at  that.  There  was  no  need  of  going 
in  at  present. 

Sarell  met  the  two  in  her  bright,  sweet  kitchen,  that  she 
meant  to  have  to  herself  and  Hollis  to-day,  though  people  were 
offering  to  "  cook  or  to  wash  up  or  anything."  "  I  c'n  cook,  'n 
the'  ain't  no  need  t'  wash  up,"  she  had  answered  proudly. 

She  gave  Mr.  Heybrook  the  package  of  papers,  the  bunch  of 
keys,  and  the  slip  of  written  memorandum.  "  He  died  with 
his  mind  at  rest,"  was  all  her  explanation.  "  An'  now  it 's  off 
my  mind.  You  '11  take  charge." 

Old  Welcome  was  half  bewildered,  but  Israel  comprehended 
something.  Father  and  son  glanced  together  at  the  outside  of 
the  documents,  as  the  former  held  them  in  his  hands.  Then 
the  old  man  closed  his  fingers  over  them,  and  Israel  turned 
away.  Neither  of  them  would  be  eager,  in  this  first  moment, 
to  look  further  into  his  own  benefit.  Welcome  moved  toward 
the  keeping-room.  It  seemed  as  if  he  must  go  to  Ambrose 
first,  before  he  could  take  to  himself  what  Ambrose,  lying  there 
so  empty-handed  now,  had  left  behind  for  him. 

Israel  turned  round  to  Sarell.  "You  're  a  noble,  good  woman, 
Sarell,"  he  said  warmly,  taking  her  hand,  "  and  you  will  have 
your  reward." 

"  I  thought  he  needed  seein'  to,  Rael,"  Sarell  said,  with  the 
first  tremble  in  her  voice  that  had  been  so  calm  and  strong  "all 
the  way  through,  "  or  I  would  n't  never  'a  left  y'r  mother." 

And  then  Israel  comprehended  still  more.  "That  was  it, 
then,  all  the  time,  when  we  were  thinking  you  were  in  a  hurry 
to  please  yourself?  And  you've  done  it  for  us,  —  what  I'd 
never  have  asked  for,  if  it  had  never  been  done !  Sarell,  I  'm 
ashamed,"  said  the  proud  fellow. 

Sarell's  face  quivered  all  over.  "  'T  wa'  n't  th't  I  should  n't  V 
got  merried  all  the  same,  some  time,"  she  said  loyally.  "But  it 
looked  hard  jest  then,  t'  be  takin'  my  own  way,  'n  walkin'  pride. 
Only,  I  see  'twas  time  somebody  was  here,  f 'r  a  number  o' 
things,"  she  ended  commonplacely,  and  then  sat  down  in  a  chair 


444  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

beside  her  white,  scoured  table,  on  which  she  put  both  her  arms 
suddenly,  and  her  head  on  them,  and  cried  and  cried. 

I  wonder  if  anything  of  a  remotely  suggested  consciousness 
came  to  Itael  Heybrook,  with  those  words  and  tears,  of  an  un 
lived  possibility  of  this  girl's  nature,  in  which  had  rooted  itself 
this  devotion  to  his  home  and  him  1  If  there  did,  he  felt  it 
•with  a  reverence.  "  We  shall  prize  you  all  our  lives  for  this, 
you  good,  dear  friend,"  he  said,  his  voice  strong  with  gentleness. 
"  But  don't  take  on,  you  're  all  tired  out."  He  ended  as  common- 
placely  as  she  had  done.  The  speech  that  comes  up  on  the  in 
stant  from  the  deepest  heart  does  but  catch  to  itself  its  oldest, 
most  familiar  garment  by  the  way.  Israel  laid  the  hand  she 
had  dropped  from  hers  upon  her  shoulder,  brotherly. 

"  She  's  ben  up  all  night,"  said  Hollis,  coming  in.  "  An'  she 
won't  let  any  o'  them  folks  out  here  to  do  an  individgiwil  thing ; 
an'  ther  '11  be  dinners  all  day  long,  like  's  not.  There  's  Flyn- 
ton  Steele  drivin'  in  this  minute." 

"You  see  to  him  and  his  horse,  and  keep  them  all  off,"  said 
Israel.  "  I  '11  go  back  and  fetch  my  mother." 

So  they  took  care  of  Sarell  now,  and  it  was  time.  Mrs. 
Heybrook  came,  loved  her  and  kissed  her,  told  her  she  could  n't 
have  done  more  if  she  had  been  their  own  girl,  and  they  never 
could  make  it  up  to  her,  but  the  Lord  would,  and  her  husband, 
and,  —  "  There  !  there  !  she  must  go  now  and  get  rested."  And 
she  went  with  her  up  stairs,  and  made  her  lie  down ;  and  while 
she  spread  some  wrap  round  her  shoulders  and  feet,  she  leaned 
ove'r  her  and  said,  "  I  used  t'  think  —  but  there,  his  looks  must  'ev 
misreppersented  him.  He  used  t'  be  so  kind  o'  fine,  you  know ; 
but  he  's  stiddy  an'  good,  an'  ef  a  woman  sets  her  mark,  a  man 
doos  somehow  grow  up  to  it,  when  she  sets  it  lovin'." 

Sarell  clung  an  instant  to  the  motherly  shoulders.  "  Ef 
I've  got  any  mark,  f'r  myself  or  f  'r  Hollis  either,  t'  help  him 
grow  up  to,  I  've  got  it  livin'  with  your  folks,  Mis'  Heybrook, 
an'  I  'm  thankful !  " 

Perhaps  there  is  many  a  woman  who  goes  through  life  with 
"  her  mark  set."  —  where  she  has  had  some  vision  out  of  reach, 
at  the  height  where  she  could  love  with  all  there  is  of  her,  — 
trying  to  love  somebody  up  to  it  all  the  way;  and  perhaps 


SARELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND  COMES   OUT   EVEN.      445 

in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  she  finds  that  she  has  got  him 
there. 

It  was  still  and  peaceful  in  Sarell's  attic-room,  wide  and  sun 
shiny  though  low,  extending  over  both  kitchen  and  outroom, 
with  its  little  windows  to  the  south  and  west.  From  her  bed, 
as  she  lay,  she  could  look  across  the  hollow  to  the  foot-bridge 
under  the  buttonwood  trees  over  the  brook,  —  the  way  that  led 
by  hill  and  field  to  the  West  Side  and  the  Heybrook  farm. 

It  was  all  theirs  back  again  now,  and  more  too.  There  they 
were  downstairs  with  the  papers.  They  knew  all  now,  and  they 
would  be  so  glad  ;  and  it  was  her  doing. 

She  forgot  all  about  Mother  Pemble  and  the  sealed  locks.  She 
remembered  only  the  right,  peaceful,  thankful  things,  — how  Rael 
had  said  they  would  prize  her  all  their  lives,  how  she  had  earned 
a  place  in  their  lives  with  them  now,  how  everything  was  safe 
in  their  hands  ;  and  while  she  thought  she  was  only  resting,  she 
fell  softly,  deeply  asleep,  and  slept  the  long  forenoon  through. 

Did  Mother  Pemble  sleep  1     After  she  had  done  one  thing. 

There  was  that  low  stir  in  the  house  that  covered  all  low 
stirring,  —  voices,  subdued  but  incessant,  and  feet  passing  and 
repassing  in  the  parlor,  through  the  parlor-bedroom,  keeping- 
room,  and  where  the  dead  man  lay.  Doors  were  opened  and 
shut ;  there  was  sweeping  and  moving  of  things  about ;  then 
there  was  a  luncheon-table  and  the  clatter  of  dishes  in  the 
keeping-room.  The  surge  of  bustle  that  a  country  household 
keeps  up  when  the  neighbors  all  turn  in  and  are  to  be  politely 
entreated,  and  the  preparations  for  a  funeral  go  forward. 

There  was  time  enough,  and  cover  enough,  for  all  Mother 
Pemble  need  do  to-day. 

She  had  let  it  be  too  late  for  any  other  doing.  Now  she 
must  go  on,  and  she  had  not  waited  seven  years  to  wish  to  do 
otherwise. 

Seven  years  for  at  best,  perhaps,  but  a  difference  of  three 
thousand  dollars. 

But  that  was  a  vast  difference  to  Mother  Pemble.  That, 
added  to  what  was  sure,  meant  opulence  and  consequence  for 
all  their  days  for  herself  and  for  Care'line.  It  meant  a  house 


446  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

and  pretty  front  yard  in  town  or  village,  the  height  of  a  retiring 
rural  ambition ;  a  hired  girl  to  do  their  work  ;  things  as  they 
wanted  them,  and  nobody  to  tyrannize  or  dictate ;  dreams 
fulfilled  that  she  had  lain  here  and  dreamed,  and  carefully 
nursed  and  kept  herself  to  enjoy.  Not  here,  where  people 
would  notice  and  talk  over  and  wonder  how.  There  were  other 
places,  places  where  they  would  rather  live.  Anywhere,  at  any 
time,  those  papers  were  money,  good  for  cash  or  for  invest 
ments,  as  Deacon  Amb  had  said. 

It  might  not  have  turned  out  so  ;  half  a  dozen  things  might 
have  prevented  ;  if  those  had  been  registered  bonds  even.  But 
they  were  the  last  shape  he  had  put  his  funds  into  that  he  might 
want  again  any  day.  Flynton  Steele  had  said  they  were  just 
as  well,  temporarily.  Mother  Pernble  knew  something  about 
business  or  she  would  not  have  dared  to  meddle.  She  had  been 
a  widow  herself,  and  had  had  money  in  bonds. 

"  Care'line  1 "  —  all  these  considerations  went  through  Mother 
Pemble's  mind,  as  they  had  done  many  times  before,  —  "Care' 
line  1  Pshaw  !  When  did  she  ever  trouble  her  head  where 
money  came  from  1  What  they  had  might  grow.  Flynton 
Steele  was  a  good  manager.  They  might  '  be  prospered'  as  the 
deacon  had  been,  an'  Care'line  never 'd  inquire  how.  Nor 
Flynton  would  n't  go  into  particklers,  for  that  matter.  Flynton 
would  n't  have  listened  to  any  open  word  of  settlin'  for  herself 
in  this  way,  before  nor  after ;  but  he  knew  Aunt  Harriet 
was  n't  a  fool  an'  never  had  been,  an'  that  Care'line  could  be 
turned  over  anybody's  finger  an'  not  know  it.  Likely  it  was 
his  doing,  partly,  that  things  was  got  back  ev'ry  little  while  into 
handy  shape  like  that. 

"She  had  taken  her  chance,  perhaps  other  folks  had  ;  it  might 
stand  Flynton  Steele  in  hand  as  much  as  anybody  if  things 
worked  well  for  them,  and  he  knew  it.  She  had  taken  her  chance 
and  things  had  worked  well  ;  tber'  was  nothing  got  that  ivas  n't 
tried  for.  Now  she  had  risked  the  last  stroke,  and  ther'  was  n't, 
ther'  mus'  n't  be,  anything  that  anybody  could  preurve." 

"  After  all,  it  was  only  their  own  back  again,  with  what  it 
ought  to  bring."  That  was  the  little  soothing  breeze  she  kept 
up  with  the  fluttering  rag  that  was  all  she  had  left  of  her  con 
science.  She  was  looking  out  for  her  own  and  Care'line's. 


SAKELL  GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT  EVEN.     447 

If  it  had  not  been  for  this  sharp  Sarell  and  this  watch  and 
ward  of  hers  that  had  gone  on  now,  with  a  narrowing  and  con 
centrating  scrutiny  and  stringency,  -for  mouths,  and  had  cul 
minated  in  the  bold,  prompt  action  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours, 
there  would  have  been  no  trouble  at  all  with  her  own  h'nal  pro 
cedures  ;  everything  would  have  been  in  her  own  hands.  But 
she  had  not  been  idle  as  to  provisional  thinking  all  the  while 
that  she  had  felt  Sarell's  clever  parallels  investing  her  closer 
and  closer  ;  and  since  the  stroke  of  the  sealed  locks  she  had 
rapidly  taken  her  mental  measures,  which  needed  only  certain 
calculable  opportunities  for  carrying  out. 

Mother  Heybrook  had  just  looked  in,  and  in  her  innocent, 
kindly  fashion  told  her  that  she  would  see  to  anything  that  was 
wanted,  for  Sarell  was  beat  out  and  had  gone  to  bed  ;  where 
upon  Mother  Pemble  had  said  that  she  had  n't  had  any  rest 
herself  all  night,  and  if  Mrs.  Heybrook  would  have  the  goodness 
to  fasten  that  door  into  the  parlor,  she  guessed  she  'd  put  her 
latch  down  and  get  a  good  sleep  now,  if  she  could  ;  after  which 
Mother  Heybrook  herself  did  her  best  in  warning  off  disturbance, 
and  the  coast  was  clear. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  one  safe  thing  to  do;  safe 
either  way,  for  nothing  could  be  "  prewved  "  even  if  the  nearly 
certain  circumstances  should  not  play  in  for  her  as  she  desired. 
It  was  her  best  move,  and  it  could  but  fail.  It  was  her  very 
strongest  chance,  and  it  hardly  could  fail. 

She  had  thought  over  all  that  would  be  doing,  all  that  would 
be  wanting,  all  that  she  could  count  upon  from  others  of  un 
conscious  co-operation,  and  there  was  one  way  of  getting  her 
spoil  out  of  her  own  territories  and  yet  under  such  concealment 
as  would  keep  it  in  her  own  knowledge  and  power  for  future 
access.  Mother  Pemble  was  a  very  quick-witted  and  "all- 
round  "  woman. 

She  crept  up  into  that  attic  again.  She  did  something  there 
with  a  little  use  of  scissors  and  some  cautious  stitches.  — scru 
pulously  few  and  half  drawn,  —  with  a  very  strong,  soiled  thread, 
by  which  she  was  enabled  to  slide  away  and  to  secure,  at  the 
same  time  leaving  a  most  unguarded  appearance  of  things, 
such  as  had  been  obvious  for  years,  two  thin,  flat  parcels  pinned 
in  soft  old  flannel  wraps. 


448  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

It  was  down  in  a  dusty,  cob  webbed  corner,  just  inside  that 
eave-closet  door  ;  nothing  was  moved  more  than  could  possibly  be 
helped  ;  in  the  careful  replacing  she  even  managed  dexterously 
to  catch  the  overhanging  edge  of  a  web  that  floated  in  dim 
palpableness  and  with  tenacious  grasp  from  a  rough  crossing 
beam. 

Some  grim  grotesqueness  seemed  to  strike  her  as  she  turned 
to  creep  away.  "  It  '11  foller  after"  she  said  in  a  half-breathed 
whisper,  with  sinister-smiling  lips  and  eyes,  "  an'  it  '11  come 
back,  like  the  rest,  as  cherfle  's  ever  !  Then  let  'em  look ;  let 
'em  find  it  ef  they  can,  an'  let  'em  prewve  it !  " 

She  slipped  along  down  into  her  room  again,  holding  with 
fingers  as  well  as  with  her  woollen-stockinged  feet  from  edge 
to  edge  of  the  stairs.  She  took  off  and  put  back  into  the 
walnut  chest  the  short  wrapper  she  had  had  on  over  her  bed- 
dress,  and  left  the  lid  resting  on  its  hasp  as  it  had  been  in  the 
morning.  She  was  almost  ready  for  her  nap. 

There  was  one  thing  more  she  meant  to  do,  but  that  must 
wait  the  next  safely  coming  opportunity.  They  would  n't  open 
anything  till  after  the  funeral. 

When  they  did,  she  would  have  Flynton  Steele  called  in  on 
their  part.  He  was  like  a  good  partner  at  whist :  he  might  not 
know  what  was  in  her  hand,  he  would  n't  want  to  know,  but  if 
there  was  a  card  that  needed  to  be  played  and  it  lay  in  his,  he 
would  play  it  for  her  good  and  for  Care'line's. 

Meanwhile,  thinking  this  over  after  she  had  once  more  got 
back  into  bed,  she  unwound  the  large  ball  of  gray  yarn  from 
which  she  was  knitting  and  wound  it  up  again,  tucking  some 
small,  hard  object  away  in  the  middle  of  it  as  she  did  so.  And 
then  she  laid  ball  and  work  back  beside  her  on  the  counterpane, 
turned  her  face  inward  from  the  windows,  and  went  to  sleep 
like  a  Napoleon. 

This  was  on  Thursday. 

On  Friday  Flynton  Steele  drove  over  again.  Care'line  was 
in  her  mother's  room  ;  the  parlor  was  appropriated  ;  the  deacon 
lay  there  handsomely  disposed  of;  long  rows  of  empty  chairs 
stood  waiting  around  the  walls. 

Mother  Pemble  kept  somebody  with  her,  now,  all  the  time. 


SARELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT   EVEN.      449 

It  was  lonesome  there,  with  only  that  door  between,  and  there 
were  other  reasons. 

Fljnton  Ste,ele  came  in  ;  he  was  careful,  in  these  intermediate 
days,  not  to  closet  himself  with  Mrs.  Pemble,  but  with  the  rest 
all  in  and  out,  he  sat  there  talking  with  the  restrained  polite 
ness  people  show  to  Death  as  they  step  slightly  aside  for  him 
to  pass  who  has  no  errand  for  themselves. 

So  it  happened  that  he  and  Mrs.  Heybrook  and  Farmer  Wel 
come  himself,  who  was  just  come  to  take  his  wife  home  to 
rest  before  the  funeral,  were  all  there  when  Hollis  Bassett 
looked  in  at  the  door  with  a  question  for  the  widow.  They  were 
brushing  up,  outside,  with  vehicles  and  harness,  for  to-morrow's 
procession. 

"  D'  y'  know,  Missis  Newell,  where  the  deacon  kep'  the  cushins 
of  the  new  chaise  ] " 

Now  the  new  chaise  was  new  in  the  sense  that  the  last  horse 
raised  upon  the  farm  is  always  the  colt ;  it  had  been  bought 
moi-e  than  a  dozen  years  ago,  —  a  wide,  comfortable  thing  in 
which  the  deacon  in  the  elder  time  had  driven  his  two  women 
folks,  country-bodkinwise,  in  and  out  of  Reade  and  Hawksbury. 
For  many  years  of  late  it  had  been  rarely  taken  out ;  the  deacon 
preferred  either  the  open,  one-seat  wagon  or  the  ancient  gig  for 
his  own  use,  according  to  his  errands. 

"  Why,  yes,  Hollis,  t'  be  sure,"  answered  the  widow  serenely. 
"  In  the  keepin'  room  attic ;  I  guess  likely  in  the  eave-cluzzit. 
You  c'n  go  right  up." 

Which  Hollis  did,  returning  with  the  two  solid,  sqxiare  cush 
ions, —  the  leather  bottoms  stiff  with  old  damps  and  dust,  and 
places  in  each  where  the  seams  had  started  slightly  along  the 
edges.  But  they  were  the  "  new  "  cushions,  kept  sacredly  away 
from  the  common  stowage  of  the  barn,  where  the  chaise  stood 
in  a  shroud  of  old  quilts. 

"  How  long  it  is  sence  that 's  ben  out  Before  ! "  said  Care'line, 
with  her  bereaved  sigh. 

Mother  Pemble  had  securely  counted  on  some  such  auxiliary 
sentiment  as  this.  Things  happened  very  well. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  let  that  shay  be  sold  off,  Care'line, —  ef 
things  air  sold,"  she  said,  as  Hollis,  followed  by  Farmer  and 

29 


450  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

Mrs.  Heybrook,  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Flynton  Steele 
also  rose  to  go.  "You  ain't  rid  much  lately,  but  you  want 
something  you  could  ride  in ;  an'  that 's  low  and  big  an'  easy. 
Flynton  '11  see  to  it —  an'  anything  else  you  like  —  when  the 
time  comes."  And  Mother  Pemble  left  it  there,  in  deference  to 
the  silent  halt,  close  to  them,  of  that  Passer-by. 

There  had  been  just  enough  of  careful  emphasis  on  the 
words  that  referred  to  Flynton. 

"  My  cousin  may  call  on  me  for  any  service  I  can  be  to  her," 
said  Mr.  Steele,  with  a  not  absolutely  accurate  elegance,  and 
recognizing  some  lead  which,  without  wholly  understanding,  he 
was  to  follow.  He  made  a  note  in  his  mind  of  the  old  chaise, 
—  I  beg  pardon,  the  new  one.  Mother  Pemble  never  troubled 
her  mind  very  much  with  anything  unless  it  "signified." 

The  funeral  took  place  on  Saturday.  We  will  dwell  on  noth 
ing  that  we  need  not;  there  is  little  room  —  and  can  be  little 
relish  —  for  a  lingering  over  the  closing  particulars  of  this  por 
tion  of  our  story.  The  hankering  after  such,  in  the  circum 
stance  of  any  death, —  of  body  or  of  soul, —  is  morbid. 

Sarell  had  sat,  with  bonnet  on,  in  the  small  household  group, 
during  the  funeral  prayers.  Then,  when  the  widow  and  Flyn 
ton  Steele,  Farmer  Heybrook  and  his  wife,  his  two  boys,  and 
the  minister  had  gone  forth,  and  Hollis,  fully  expecting  to  take 
his  wife  beside  him  in  the  neat  light  wagon  he  had  provided, 
and  that  was  standing  in  its  turn  before  the  door,  came  in  for 
her,  she  quietly  whispered,  "  I  'm  pretty  tired,  Hollis,  an'  I  'd 
full  as  soon  be  th'  one  t'  see  t'  the  house.  You  take  Mis' 
Streakham, —  yes,  do,  that's  a  good  fellow, —  she  wants  t'  go." 
And  Hollis,  much  amazed,  and  also  greatly  disgusted,  consid 
ering  his  best  clothes  and  the  tidy  team  he  had  hired  with  his 
old  love  of  driving  off  in  style,  had  to  turn  round  and  give 
his  arm  to  the  lady  in  the  rusty  black  bonnet  and  thin  "cyprus" 
veil  that  were  associated  with  all  occasions  like  the  present  in 
Fellaiden  as  regularly  as  the  blaek-draperied  "  narrow  carriage," 
and  who,  on  her  part,  with  concurrent  arrangement,  already 
stood  up,  waiting. 

And  so,  at  last,  in  the  stillness  and  balminess  of  one  of  the 
exceptional  spring  days,  the  long  train  of  various  vehicles  filed 


SAEELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT   EVEN.     451 

away  around  the  hill;  and  the  house  in  the  Hollow  was  left 
open,  hushed,  empty, —  as  a  house  only  is  when  there  has  just 
been  such  a  departure  from  it. 

Sarell  had  had  a  seat  within  the  parlor  bedroom,  near  the 
closet-passage,  open  also  now,  into  Mother  Pemble's  room. 
When  the  services  were  over,  and  a  few  women  who  had  been 
in  the  "  east  room  "  had  come  forth,  she  had  slipped  behind 
them  and  stood  quietly  in  the  inner  doorway. 

"  'S  that  you,  Sarell  1 "  asked  Mother  Pemble,  from  the  bed. 
"  I  wish  t'  mercy  you  'd  shet  me  up  'fore  y'  go.  I  can't  hev 
Goody  Streakham  comin'  in.  I  'm  clear  wore  out." 

Sarell  came  in,  closing  and  fastening  the  door  behind  her; 
then,  without  further  word,  passed  through  into  the  keeping- 
room  passage,  closing  that  door  also,  and  slipping  the  loop  of 
cord  that  still  hung  from  the  press-room  knob  over  its  handle, 
as  she  went ;  and  regaining  her  place  in  the  parlor,  she  gently 
pushed  the  door  of  the  closet  entrance  to  and  turned  the  key. 
Then,  her  mind  quite  made  up  to  what  she  had  already  been 
considering,  she  had  spoken  to  Mrs.  Streakham,  and  confounded 
Hollis,  as  we  have  seen. 

Sarell  stood  at  the  porch  door  a  few  minutes,  looking  forth 
upon  the  sweet  quiet  of  blue  air  and  flecking  clouds  and  pale- 
gray  hills, —  of  the  springing  green  of  the  earth,  and  fretwork 
of  budding  branches  against  the  sky.  She  took  off  her  bonnet 
and  dropped  it  upon  a  chair ;  then  she  walked  out  and  around 
to  the  open  shed-way,  and  so  through  to  the  keeping-room. 
There  she  paused  again  for  a  little,  thinking  how  strange  it  all 
was,  and  how  long  ago  it  seemed  that  she  had  passed  the  day 
and  night  there  that  had  been  the  old  man's  last  chance  of 
"  clear  freewill." 

She  had  no  distinct  intention  of  watching  for  anything  now. 
She  only  felt  it  right  she  should  be  there,  about  the  place.  She 
had  supposed  that  all  effective  watching  was  over,  save  that  of 
maintaining  the  certainty  that  there  could  be  no  outside  free 
dom  from  those  two  rooms,  where  whatever  was  to  be  cared  for 
must  still  be.  Presently,  she  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  her 
own  end  of  the  house.  These  were  solid  old  oaken  stairs,  built 
iu  with  the  chimney ;  there  was  no  creaking  with  these,  and 


452  ODD,   OK  EVEN? 

Sarell's  shoes  were  silent.  But  as  she  passed  upward,  she  dis 
tinctly  heard  that  slow  creak  again, —  quite  near  overhead. 
She  went  on,  quickly  and  softly,  into  her  own  room ;  the  eave- 
closet  door  was  ajar. 

The  stairway,  the  chimney,  and  a  closet  over  the  stairs 
were  between  her  and  the  little  attic.  She  could  hear  no  sound 
now,  and  she  was  secure  that  no  slight  sound  of  hers  could  be 
perceived.  She  slipped  off  her  dress  and  put  on  a  flannel  sacque. 
All  her  other  clothing  was  soft  and  noiseless. 

Behind  the  chimney,  against  the  slope  of  it,  was  the  partition 
of  the  closets  in  the  eave.  The  two  boards  removed  had  been 
the  last,  short  ones  in  the  low  space.  Beyond  the  opening 
there  lay  a  feather-bed,  bundled  up  in  an  old  "  patch."  This 
she  had  just  squeezed  aside,  so  as  to  leave  a  creeping-path 
behind  it  toward  the  other  end.  On  her  own  side  she  had  kept 
some  little  pile  of  clothing  that  had  covered  and  darkened  the 
access. 

After  all,  her  time  had  come  to  use  this  way  that  she  had 
made. 

She  had  necessarily  occupied  some  minutes ;  it  was  so  still 
that  she  dared  not  go  forward,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  place 
must  be  again  vacant. 

But  presently  she  heard  a  sliding  sound.  "  Can  that  be 
possible  ? "  she  thought ;  and  immediately  withdrew  into  her 
room  again,  where  she  went  and  sat  down  upon  the  floor  behind 
some  screening  pots  of  little  plants  in  one  of  the  low,  oblong 
south  windows. 

There  were  two  of  these  in  this  room,  and  one  in  the  small 
attic.  They  were,  perhaps,  two  and  a  half  feet  high.  The  one 
from  the  attic  was  scarcely  three  feet  above  the  slightly  sloping 
roof  that  ran  down  from  a  little  above  the  second  floor  of  the 
main  house,  over  the  built-on  parlor-bedroom  and  a  stoop  beyond, 
at  whose  edge  it  came  nearly  to  the  level  of  the  top  of  the  well- 
curb  that  stood  a  little  way  from  its  outer  corner,  just  within 
the  line  of  a  quadrangle  enclosed  on  three  sides  by  the  stoop, 
the  house  extension,  and  the  open  shed  facing  the  well. 

An  agile  person  might,  perhaps,  get  down  and  up  again  by  the 
planking  of  the  curb,  which  was  within  a  long  step  and  grasp 
of  the  simple  double  and  crosspieced  support  of  the  stoop. 


SAKELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT  EVEN.      453 

Was  that  possible  for  Mother  Pemble  1 

At  any  rate,  there  was  Mother  Pemble  now,  out  upon  the 
roof.  The  low  window-ledge,  almost  level  with  the  floor,  and 
the  slight  drop  outside,  gave  her  all  this  scope  and  chance  of 
freedom, —  freedom,  even,  over  the  whole  farm.  Sarell  wondered 
she  had  never  thought  of  that  before. 

But  now  she  was  exaggerating  the  possibilities.  Mother 
Pemble  could  not  go  all  over  the  farm,  though  within  a  cer 
tain  none  the  less  surprising  limit  she  had  undoubtedly 
ranged.  In  her  square  chest  and  up  here  in  her  packed-away 
trunks,  she  had  access  to  her  clothing,  of  whatever  sort ;  and 
in  her  own  room  she  had  convenience  for  restoring  to  order 
whatever  traces  might  have  been  otherwise  left  of  soil  or  use. 
Mother  Pemble  had  taken  energetic  care  not  to  get  bedridden 
in  earnest. 

As  she  sat  there  now,  evidently  enjoying  the  sweet,  soft, 
open  air,  she  was  a  curious  figure  to  Sarell's  sight,  observing 
her  from  between  the  screening  stems  of  her  geraniums  and 
heliotropes. 

She  was  in  a  rambling  —  or  scrambling — costume,  exactly 
adapted  to  her  purposes ;  and  in  it  she  presented,  as  she  sat 
there  upon  the  roof,  —  her  knees  raised  by  her  feet  drawn 
under  her,  and  her  arms  clasped  round  them,  —  in  a  short, 
rough  jacket  of  some  common  fur  that  had  probably  been  a 
man's  overcoat,  such  as  the  farmers  here  drove  about  in  in  the 
winter  time,  loose,  dark  woollen  trousers,  no  impeding  skirt, 
and  a  close-fitting,  horizontally  projecting  quilted  black  silk 
hood,  —  an  aspect  that  instantly  accounted  to  Mrs.  Bassett's 
mind  for  Dr.  Fargood's  apparition  of  the  dog. 

"  She 's  worked  hard  !  "  Sarell  ejaculated  with  scornful  breath. 
"  She 's  worked  hard.  An'  I  wonder  what  sort  'v  'n  opinion 
she  's  ben  able  t'  keep  up  'v  herself  thriew  it  all  1  She  's  a  kind 
'v  a  reddle,  an'  a  awfle  crooked  one,  —  that  woman ;  but  I 
persume  the  ol'  Father  o'  lies  keeps  track  o'  th'  spellin'  ov  it, 
an'  deac'ns  it  out  to  her  's  she  goes  along.  —  Now  what  's  she 
up  to  ] " 

Mother  Pemble  crept  down  the  slope,  and  along  the  stoop- 
roof,  to  the  point  opposite  the  well.  There  she  sat  down,  upon 


454  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 

the  very  edge,  with  one  hand,  that  seemed  to  hold  some  small 
thing,  raised ;  she  leaned  forward  carefully,  holding  on  with 
the  other  hand  down  beside  her,  clutching  the  shingles ;  she 
sti'etched  her  right  hand  over,  the  object  in  it  lightly  grasped 
between  the  extremes  of  thumb  and  fingers ;  she  made  one  or 
two  little  swinging  motions  with  it,  as  measuring  accurately 
aim  and  distance  ;  then  she  gave  a  toss,  —  they  say  a  woman 
never  throws,  —  and  something  described  a  slight  parabola  over 
the  framing  curb,  and  dropped  plumb  into  the  very  centre  of 
the  well. 

"  That  don't  need  tellin',"  said  Sarell.  "She  's  took  care  V 
the  key."  And  as  Mother  Pemble  turned  to  creep  up  the  roof 
again,  Sarell  vanished  from  her  post  and  sped  round,  through 
the  partition  passage,  to  the  eave-closet,  taking  with  her,  as  she 
passed  through  her  own  division  of  it,  a  stout  knitting-needle 
that  was  thrust  there  in  readiness  in  a  crevice  behind  a  beam. 
This  she  slipped  through  the  wide  crack  of  the  time-shrunken 
door,  pushed  upward  a  loose  old  wooden  button,  and  let  herself 
softly  into  the  south  attic. 

"  I  could  keep  her  out  there  t'll  the  kerridges  all  come  home," 
considered  Mrs.  Bassett  with  herself,  as  she  stooped  low  to 
approach  the  sliding  window,  and  reaching  it,  knelt  down  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  its  frame.  "  But  —  come  to  —  I  guess  I  c'n 
give  her  that  odds,  'u  be  even  with  her,  yit.  An'  I  'd  dispise, 
now,  t'  scare  her  int'  tellin1  me  anything.  —  Too,"  she  inter 
rupted  herself  with  a  briskly  worded  thought,  "  'f  I  hev  t'  ask 
anybody,  't  might  be  some  body  more  rispect'ble  !  Ef  Rael 
Heybrook's  dog  hed  one  sniff  'v  that  wallet,  he  'd  nose  out  any 
thing  th't  hed  been  in  it,  all  over  the  farm." 

So  Sarell  calmly  removed  her  hand,  drew  herself  back  to 
where  she  could  stand,  and  listened  an  instant ;  heard  Mother 
Pemble's  steps  approaching  over  the  shingles,  and  flitted  into 
the  closet  shelter,  with  the  door  not  quite  shut  to. 

Mother  Pemble  knelt  up,  and  writhed  in,  head  foremost,  at 
the  window,  then  sat  down  on  the  floor  inside.  She  was  close 
to  her  own  stairway,  now,  and  she  could  afford  to  linger.  The 
sweet  southwest  wind  blew  round  her,  and  stirred  all  through 
the  close,  little,  shingly-smelling  chamber. 


SAKELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT   EVEN.     455 

"  It  's  a  proper  pleasant  day,"  the  old  woman  said  softly, 
just  as  if  she  had  the  most  innocent  right  to  enjoy  it ;  and  she 
unfastened  the  horizontal  hood,  and  unbuttoned  the  thick  fur 
jacket,  and  let  both  slip  back  upon  her  shoulders. 

"  'An  to-morrer  's  Sunday  ;  an'  Monday  —  well,  let  'em  hunt ! 
Let  'em  prewve  something,  now  !  The's  no  key  but  the  blessed 
deac'n's ;  'n  wherever  things  is  he  must  a  put  'em.  They  '11  be 
smart,  though,  ef  they  think  of  lookin'  in  a  ol'  — 

Sarell  was  close  by ;  but  the  half-murmured  words  failed  to 
distinguish  themselves  to  her,  thus  far;  only  at  this  point, 
the  old  woman,  sitting  in  the  fresh  air,  sneezed  — 

"  SHAY-CUSHIN  ! " 

The  word  had  been  formed  upon  her  lip ;  the  sudden  convul 
sion  drove  it  forth  in  forced  articulation  and  spasmodic 
violence. 

That  which  had  been  done  secretly  in  the  closet  was  pro 
claimed  literally,  and  by  the  very  doer,  upon  the  house-top. 

Sarell  went  out  to  her  husband  in  the  dooryard  when  the 
carriages  had  come  home. 

A  boy  from  the  Centre  was  to  drive  back  the  hired  team. 
Hollis  was  unhitching  the  gray  horse  from  the  new  chaise. 

"  S'pose  I  might  's  well  leave  this  jest  as  't  is  now,"  he  said, 
as  she  stood  by  till  he  wheeled  the  vehicle  back  into  its  recess 
in  the  old  barn. 

"  I  'd  kevver  it  up,"  said  Sarell. 

"  I  mean  the  cushins.  They  '11  do  well  enough ;  I  c'n  turn 
the  luther  sides  up." 

"  Where  did  y'  fetch  them  cushins  from  1 "  inquired  his  wife. 

"  Why,  the  south  attic,  where  the  deac'n  kep'  'em  ;  but  they 
're  better  off  here,  where  they  '11  be  'tended  to.  They  was  all 
dust  'n  cobwebs." 

"  Hollis,  when  the  folks  is  all  gone  to-night,  you  fetch  them 
cushius  in  to  me." 

"  What  fur  ? " 

"  So 's 't  I  c'n  'tend  to  'em  properly.  —  The '  might  be  a  rat's 
nest  inside." 

On  Monday  they  opened  the  old  secretary. 

Papers  were  found  in  abundance,  but  all  carefully  docketed 
and  filed ;  it  did  not  take  three  men  long  to  run  them  over. 


456  ODD,   OK   EVEN  ? 

Mother  Pemble  lay- against  her  pillows,  knitting. 

The  leather  wallet  was  there,  under  the  sliding  lid ;  there 
were  papers  in  that  also,  worn  and  creased  with  long  lying ;  but 
no  fresh  ones,  nothing  that  represented  money. 

"  That 's  surprising"  said  Farmer  Heybrook,  holding  the  mem 
orandum  in  his  hand.  But  he  said  it  much  as  if  his  capacity 
for  being  surprised  were  exhausted. 

"  Better  look  thurrer,  while  ye  've  got  it  in  hand,"  trebled 
Mother  Pemble  from  the  bed.  "I'd  ruther  —  Care'line 'n  I 
•would  —  y'  should  n't  leave  the  house  'thout  findin'  out  what 
is  in  it,  'n  where  'bouts." 

"  What  other  places  is  the'  —  locked  1  Ambrose  was  a 
kerfle  man,"  said  Welcome. 

"  Care'line  c'n  tell  ye,  —  y'  c'n  try  all  the  keys ;  but  I  guess 
they  're  mos'ly  old  ones  th't  don't  b'long  t'  nothin'.  Th'  deac'n, 
he  was  fond  o'  keys;  alwers  kerried  a  whole  bunch.  Git  'em 
all  th'  keys  'n  th'  house,  Care'line,  —  an'  show  'em  all  the 
locks." 

"  La,  ma ! "  said  Care'line,  and  then  stopped  to  sigh  her 
bereaved  sigh  again,  as  if  the  levity  of  the  "  La ! "  had  been 
hardly  lawful.  "  The'  never  was  nothin'  locked  up  'n  th'  whole 
place,  —  but  your  things  an'  the  deac'n's  seckerterry." 

"Well,  —  they  c'n  look  'n  my  things,  then,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "  They  'd  best  do  th'  whole  job  up,  so'  s  't  the'  can't 
ever  be  nothin'  said." 

"  I  think  everything  ought  to  be  here.  I  think  he  said  so  to 
Sarell,"  said  Israel  Heybrook,  disregarding  the  little  interlude. 
"  He  came  here  to  look  over  his  papers,  she  told  me,  the  day 
before  he  died." 

"  Ask  Mrs.  Bassett  to  come  in,"  said  Flynton  Steele. 

Sarell  came  in.  "  Where  did  you  understand  Deacon  Newell 
that  these  papers  were  1 "  he  asked  her,  taking  the  memorandum 
from  Farmer  Heywood's  hand,  and  signifying  with  it. 

"  In  a  luther  wallet,  in  that  seckerterry ;  in  a  right-hand 
pigeon-hole,  under  a  led.  That 's  what  I  understood  the  day 
'fore  he  died,  when  he  wanted  'em  t'  look  over." 

"  There  is  nothing  there  of  any  importance  to  look  over. 
Has  the  secretary  been  opened  since  ] " 


SARELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT   EVEN.     457 

"  I  sh'd  persume  not.     But  I  can't  say." 

Mother  Pemble  was  knitting  on  industriously ;  but  she 
changed  her  needle  at  this  moment,  and  sent  a  sharp  glance 
over  her  glasses  at  Sarell.  Mrs.  Bassett  never  looked  her  way 
at  all. 

"Who  put  the  seals  on?" 

"I  did;  fust  chance  I  got  after  I  knew  Deac'n  Arab  never 'd 
git  her»  agin  nex'  day,  's  he  meant  to,  t'  see  t'  thiugs  himself." 

"  Curious,  was  n't  it,  you  should  happen  to  think  of  such  a 
thing1?  You  're  quite  a  woman  of  business,  Mrs.  Bassett." 

"  The's  a  good  many  things  in  the  world  th't  's  cur'ous,  Mr. 
Steele,"  returned  Sarell  coolly.  "  But  /  ain't,  nor  yet  a  busi 
ness  woman,  nerry  one.  I  'm  just  straightforrud,  'n'v  got  com 
mon  sense  ;  that 's  all." 

Something  in  Sarell's  eyes  seemed  as  if  the  trick  were  not  to 
be  taken  that  way ;  she  looked  as  if  she  might  play  a  trump. 
Mr.  Flynton  Steele  changed  his  fingering  of  the  cards. 

"Did  Deacon  Newell  tell  you,  when  you  made  this  memo 
randum,  that  the  papers  mentioned  were  in  this  secretary  1 " 

Sarell  was  silent,  recollecting.  She  called  back  to  her  mind 
the  exact  words  that  had  passed  between  her  and  the  old  man. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied.  "  He  said  the'  was  more  ;  an'  I  asked 
him  ef  he  hed  n't  better  le'  me  make  a  memmirander  'v  whatever 
the'  was.  That 's  percisely  what  I  asked  him,  an'  all  he  said. 
'N  then  he  d'rected  it  off  t'  me,  an'  I  made  it." 

Mr.  Steele  turned  to  the  secretary. 

"Did  y'  want  to  ask  me  any  more  questions?"  said  Sarell. 

"  Not  at  present,  Mrs.  Bassett." 

"  When  y'  do,  I  '11  answer  'em  t'  the  best  o'  ray  knowledge 
an'  ability."  And  Sarell  departed. 

They  went  through  all  the  papers  again ;  opened  every 
drawer,  examined  every  pigeon-hole  and  compartment. 

"  They  certainly  are  not  here,"  said  Flynton  Steele.  "  They 
may  be  anywhere,  or  nowhere.  The  old  man  may  have  tucked 
them  away,  or  he  may  have  disposed  of  them  ;  or  his  mind 
may  have  been  a  little  wandering  among  old  things ;  there  was 
nobody  with  him  but  that  young  woman,  and  she  could  hardly 
judge." 


458  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

"  Sarell  has  a  great  deal  of  common  sense  and  faithfulness," 
said  Israel  Heybrook,  reverting  to  her  own  simple  claim  for 
herself,  and  emphasizing  it.  "If  anybody  can  suggest  any 
thing,  —  unless  you,  Mr.  Steele,  have  some  clew  to  his  manage 
ment  of  things  lately,  — perhaps  she  can  ;  but  it  will  be  of  her 
honest  judgment  and  observation,  if  she  does;"  he  purposely 
used  the  word  assertive  of  the  quality  Mr.  Flynton  Steele  had 
denied  her,  —  "  she  won't  be  in  a  hurry  to  intrude."  * 

"  We  can  call  her  back,  then,"  said  the  double  cousin.  "  No, 
Mr.  Israel,  I  do  not  know  the  recent  disposition  of  Mr.  Newell's 
affairs.  I  have,  from  time  to  time,  within  the  last  few  months, 
made  sales  for  him,  and  paid  him  money,  for  which  I  have  his 
receipts ;  and  I  remember  once  his  asking  me  about  registered 
and  not  registered  bonds.  If  these  were  registered,  we  can  find 
out  about  them  easily  enough  ;  but  if  not,  —  well,  he  could  n't 
have  disposed  of  so  much  money,  I  should  say,  without  its 
being  traceable ;  but  he  may  never  have  had  it  all  at  once  in 
his  possession  ;  or  he  may,  as  I  said,  have  stowed  it  away  queerly. 
People  do  such  things,  sometimes.  Mrs.  Bassett  seems  to  have 
had  a  good  deal  of  the  care  of  matters  here.  Suppose  you  do 
see  if  anything  will  occur  to  her  ? " 

Sarell  was  called  back. 

"  We  do  not  find  all  the  papers,  Mrs.  Bassett,"  said  Flynton 
Steele  to  her.  "  We  cannot  verify  your  memorandum.  Do  you 
know  of — can  you  suggest — any  place  where  we  had  better 
look  for  them  1 " 

There  was  just  a  shade  again  of  that  tentative  browbeating, 
which  might  be  followed  up,  or  backed  down  from,  as  circum 
stances  should  develop. 

Sarell  answered  not  a  word,  but  turned  and  walked  out  of 
the  room. 

"  She 's  affronted,"  said  Care'line. 

"  Sarell  does  n't  know  anything  she  ought  not  to,"  spoke  up 
Rael  Heybrook  ;  and  Flynton  Steele  recognized  through  the 
quiet  tone  something  that  it  would  not  do  to  affront  in  him. 
"  Oh  no,  I  imagine  not,"  he  said  carelessly. 

And  with  that,  Sarell  was  back  again. 

She  held  forth  two  flat  parcels,  pinned  smoothly  in  thin  flan- 


SARELL   GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT   EVEN.     459 

nel  cloths.  They  were  between  the  tips  of  her  two  thumbs  and 
fingers. 

"  I  sidgest  these,"  she  said.     "  Is  these  anything  like  'em  1 " 

Rael  came  across  the  room  to  her.  Some  curious  association 
with  her  words,  in  the  keen  humor  under  their  quaint  dignity, 
flashed  a  gleam  of  amusement  over  his  gravely  bright  face. 
"Have  you* caught  the  rooster  again,  Sarell ]"  he  asked  her, 
in  low,  pleasant  italics  that  nobody  quite  apprehended  but 
herself. 

Sarell's  face  shone  all  over,  and  her  eyes  met  his  all  alight. 
She  felt  suddenly  gay  and  dancing  in  her  very  heart. 

Rael  Heybrook  understood  her.  A  perception,  deep  enough 
for  surface  play  and  sparkle,  was  between  them.  In  that  little 
allusion  there  was  implied  and  conceded  her  old  and  con 
tinued  household  oneness  with  them.  Rael  was  her  thorough, 
trustful,  thankful  friend;  the  word  of  quick  recognition  in  a 
slight  thing  came  easily.  That  proud,  sober  Israel !  There  are 
friendships  and  friendships,  thank  the  Lord  of  all  our  human 
hosts.  Sarell  was  satisfied. 

Mr.  Flynton  Steele  took  the  parcels  from  Rael,  who  offered 
them. 

"  Where  did  you  find  these,  Mrs.  Bassett  ? "  he  demanded,  in 
a  certain  judicial  way. 

Sarell  answered  like  a  shrewd  witness,  who  has  had  her  hand 
on  the  Book,  but  who,  perhaps,  from  something  inside  the 
Book,  is  held  to  a  discretion. 

"  I  looked  into  things  —  last  night  —  a  little,  —  an'  straight 
ened  'em  —  in  the  deac'n's  room,"  she  said  measuredly.  "  An' 
I  found  them  —  under  a  cushin-kevver.  That 's  p'utty  much 
all  I  care  'bout  sayin' ;  but  you  c'n  ask  me  more  queschins,  'f  y' 
want  to  ;  an'  /  'II  answer  'em." 

She  never  once  looked  toward  the  bed.  Mother  Pemble  sat 
there,  with  a  face  that  was  neither  pale  nor  red  nor  livid  nor 
contorted,  —  that  was  simply  struck  so,  as  one  might  say ;  as 
common  people  do  say  it,  with  the  adverbial  addition  of  "  all 
in  a  heap." 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  in  them  1 " 

"  I  ain't  looked.  They  're  pinned  thriew,  an'  you  won't  find 
but  one  set  o'  pin-holes.  They  're  percisely  as  I  found  'em." 


460  ODD,   OB  EVEN  ? 

Flynton  Steele  turned  back  to  the  secretary.  Israel's  face 
had  the  look  of  absolute  faith  in  her,  and  in  whatever  unknown 
discretion  of  her  reticence,  that  was  full  and  generous  reward. 
Farmer  Heybrook  simply  waited,  mystified  alike  by  good  for 
tune  and  the  obliquities  of  its  approach.  Care'line  never  asked 
questions. 

"  I  c'n  go  1 "  inquired  Sarell,  still  never  looking  at  the  bed. 

But  Mother  Pernble  revived  with  a  sting  of  intense,  irrepres 
sible  spite. 

"  Them  that  hides,  c'n  find,"  she  half  hissed,  half  muttered. 

"  Sh  —  h  !  "  articulated  Flynton  Steele,  reproachfully  or  warn- 
ingly,  as  it  might  be,  from  over  the  footboard ;  emphatically,  at 
any  rate. 

Then  Sarell  turned  round  and  looked  straight  at  Mother 
Pemble. 

The  weather  had  changed.  The  day  was  raw  and  gusty. 
Sarell  had  left  the  doors  open  behind  her. 

Mother  Pemble,  as  she  looked  at  her,  sneezed.  One  does 
that,  perhaps,  even  in  a  fright  or  a  grief. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  go  out,  or  shet  the  doors,"  said  the  old  woman 
vindictively.  "  You  've  set  'em  wide  open  all  thriew  th'  house. 
I  'm  gitt'n  my  death-a-cold." 

Sarell  came  up  to  the  bedstead.  She  took  a  shawl  and  drew 
it  up  round  the  miserable  old  shoulders  without  touching  them. 
She  spoke  low,  but  clearly,  bending  over  Mother  Pemble's  head. 

"  The  doors  —  an  winders  —  hez  been  open  a  good  deal  lately," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  doubt  a  mite  you  hev  got  cold.  I  should  n't 
wonder  'f  you  begun  it  Sat'day.  Folks  must  be  ketchin'  awfle 
colds,  when  they  're  took  a-sneezin'  —  shay-cushins."  The  last 
sentence  dropped  to  something  very  softly  illustrative  in  a 
whisper ;  besides  which,  Flynton  Steele  covered  the  speech,  as 
it  progressed,  with  the  wheeling  round  of  the  deacon's  great 
desk-chair  to  seat  himself  in  it,  and  then  wheeling  it  back 
again  when  he  had  done  so,  to  face  the  secretary. 

Sarell  went  out,  and  shut  all  the  doors.  They  might  be 
shut  now ;  she  had  no  need,  no  wish,  to  open  them  any 
more. 

"  You  'd  better  let  that  young  woman  alone,  Aunt  Harriet," 


SARELL  GIVES   ODDS   AND   COMES   OUT   EVEN.     461 

Flynton  Steele  found  opportunity  to  say  to  Mrs.  Pemble  just 
before  he  left,  himself,  to  go  back  to  Hawksbury. 

We  may  go,  too ;  we  shall  have  no  need  to  come  back  to  the 
east  room  or  to  its  inmate. 

And  I  hope  you  are  as  glad  to  be  done  with  Mother  Pemble 
as  I  am. 


462  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

NINE  FROM    NOUGHT,   AND  FELLAIDEN  NEWS. 

IT  is  no  use  to  talk  about  "  the  world."  There  are  as  many 
worlds  as  there  are  things  to  do  in  it  and  motives  to  do  from. 
There  are  whole  spheres  of  people, —  they  talk  about  spheres, 
but  they  never  mean  it  literally,  as  it  is, —  circulating  and  cir 
culating,  all  to  themselves,  in  their  real  life  and  centres,  as 
much  as  if  they  were  set  off  in  space  in  a  system.  Only  these 
spheres,  like  all  the  realities,  interpenetrate  each  other ;  and  we 
cross  each  other's  tracks,  and  think  we  are  on  the  same  because 
while  we  are  near  the  angle  we  are  near  each  other,  but  pres 
ently  shall  find  ourselves  whole  infinitudes  apart. 

Set  out  on  any  idea  you  will :  if  it  lead  you,  you  drift  surely 
into  its  connection  and  conformity,  and  no  other.  Everything 
else  is  collateral  to  its  forces.  And  it  is  only  when  you  get  into 
a  particular  drift  that  you  find  out  the  fellowship  of  it.  From 
positive  philosophy  to  postage  stamps, —  from  political  economy 
to  the  fashion  of  trailed  gowns, —  from  church  to  charity  fairs, 
—  engaging  yourself  with  whatever,  you  find  yourself  taking 
to  people,  and  people  taking  to  you,  whom,  and  in  a  way  that, 
you  would  otherwise  have  had  no  recognition  or  experience  of. 
"  Set," — "  sort," —  neither  expresses  it.  It  is  organism. 

There  were  people  in  Boston  —  a  whole  related  order  of  peo 
ple  —  whom  France  did  not  know,  except  as  persons  of  a  certain 
social  level  know  that  each  other  are,  and  salute  when  they 
meet  at  the  grade  crossings  of  their  paths.  Until,  all  at  once, 
this  need  of  doing  something  —  this  pressing  home  of  the  per 
ception  that  there  must  be  one  help  more  somewhere  in  the 
world  for  her  being  in  it,  or  there  would  be  no  help  to  that  very 
being  of  her  own  —  came  full  upon  her. 

She  went  to  Devereux  Hartie,  the  Professor  of  Moral  Mathe- 


NINE   FROM   NOUGHT,   AND   FELLAIDEN   NEWS.      463 

matics.  She  knew  him  as  a  gentleman ;  so  she  could  speak  to 
him.  She  thought  he  belonged,  in  a  measure  certainly,  to  her 
own  circle  :  she  was  to  find  out  what  a  different  thing  it  would 
be  to  belong  to  his.  (I  would  mention  that  Devereux  Hartie 
was  a  Reverend ;  but  they  tell  me  I  can't  get  along  at  all  with 
out  a  minister,  and  it  rather  hampers  me ;  yet  as  to  that,  all  I 
have  to  say  is,  Who  can1?) 

"  I  want  to  come  into  your  qlass  in  arithmetic,"  she  said 
playfully. 

"  0, —  multiplication  table  ? "  he  queried  in  reply.  "  Ten 
times  — " 

"  I  'm  not  so  far  on  as  multiplication,"  returned  France. 
"  I  'm  in  subtraction.  Nine  from  nought  you  can't,  you  know  ; 
so  borrow  ten  and  carry  one.  I  come  across  a  nought  now  and 
then."  Still  with  that  cover  of  sport,  and  still  with  the  earnest 
ness  underneath. 

The  Professor  of  Mathematics  laughed  gently ;  the  response 
to  the  earnestness  was  in  his  look. 

"  There  is  nothing  else  for  it  —  in  the  whole  science,"  he 
said.  "  Borrow  your  ten, —  to  carry.  You  must  come  into  our 
Cheerful  Club,  Miss  France." 

"  I  would  if  I  knew  how." 

"  We  don't  do  anything  but  borrow,"  he  said, — "  and  lend. 
We  shine  round,  in  a  small,  moonlighty  way,  into  dull  places. 
We  borrow  books,  and  lend  them  ;  we  borrow  pictures,  and  have 
a  circulating  simulacracy ;  we  borrow  things  to  work  with, — 
patterns,  materials, —  and  we  work  them  up.  This  year  we  have 
a  little  Winter  Flower  Mission ;  the  flowers  that  have  done 
duty  for  an  evening,  at  a  dinner  table  or  in  the  girls'  bouquets, 

—  they  handle  and  freshen  them  tenderly,  thinking  of  this, — 
or  borrowed  from  their  conservatories  and  flower-stands;  we 
borrow  everything  ;  money,  when  we  must, — never  pay,  that's 
not  included, —  and  lend  that  out,  carefully.     Borrow  all  along 
the  line,  and  let  it  come  out  of  the  big  last  figure  ;  the  subtra 
hend  always  looks  the  largest  till  you  come  to  that ;  and  then 

—  you  see." 

"  I  see ;  it  has  to  leave  the  noughts  all  there,  after  all." 

"  The  more  little  figures  and  noughts  to  take  from,  the  bigger 


464  ODD,    OR   EVEN  ? 

the  leading  numeral  turns  out  to  be.  Has  to.  That 's  never  a 
nought.  Here  endeth  the  first  lesson.  Go  and  talk  to  Mrs. 
Kellis  Waite,  and  tell  her  to  bring  you  the  next  Club  night." 

So  she  went  to  Mrs.  Kellis  Waite,  feeling  like  Mousie  in  the 
story,  running  round  and  round  to  earn  back  her  own  "long 
tail  again." 

Mrs.  Kellis  Waite  set  her  to  work  on  half  a  dozen  things, — 
borrowing,  enlisting  gay  girls  in  the  bouquet  mission,  writ 
ing  letters  to  postmasters  and  pastors  all  over  the  country  map, 
inquiring  out  people  and  places  to  send  little  holiday-seekers  to 
next  summer,  from  the  "poor  streets"  of  the  hot  city.  And 
she  took  her  to  Mr.  Devereux  Hartie's  on  the  Cheerful  Club 
night. 

France  found  people  in  it  whom  she  had  seen  only  in  occa 
sional  surface  ways  before,  people  who  she  had  no  idea  had 
this  world  behind  the  other ;  she  felt  as  if  they  had  stolen  a 
march  upon  her,  and  very  nearly  left  her  out.  So  surprised  are 
we  when  we  discover  that  the  same  sort  of  napkin  with  which 
we  have  hidden  our  talent  has  been  with  our  neighbor  but 
decently  folded  as  a  napkin,  while  the  money  has  gone  and 
been  multiplied  over  and  over  again  among  the  exchangers. 

She  found  also  new  people,  a  whole  clan  and  kindred  of 
them,  who  wore  hats  and  coats  and  gowns  that  covered  up 
their  angelhood,  and  walked  among  the  crowd  as  if  no  different 
from  it,  but  rather  liker  and  htimaner  to  each  particle  of  it.  It 
made  her  feel  behindhand, —  as  if  she  must  make  haste,  as  if 
she  must  begin  and  grow  up  all  over  again.  If  she  had  counted 
up  her  life  in  this  wise,  and  set  her  sum  of  it,  perhaps  she  would 
not  —  so  soon  —  have  come  to  that  nought  in  her  arithmetic. 

There  was  some  danger  in  her  hurry ;  there  is  danger  in  all 
hurry,  and  in  too  much  of  the  tangential,  even  among  the 
heavenly  forces.  The  heavenly  bodies  must  not  rush  nor 
spurt ;  the  entirest  motion  is  that  which  seems  not  to  be  a 
motion,  or  a  change  of  place  at  all. 

"  Don't  take  up  everything,"  Miss  Ammah  told  her.  "The 
Lord  seldom  gives  one  great,  outside  mission ;  He  never  gives 
half  a  dozen  at  a  time." 

Miss  Ammah  watched  her.  She  knew  she  had  been  trying 
to  take  nine  from  nothing,  somewhere. 


NINE   FROM   NOUGHT,   AND   FELLAIDEN  NEWS.     465 

One  and  another  drew  her  into  this  and  that ;  that  is  the  way 
in  the  City  of  Good  Works. 

Each  good  work  was  good,  was  needful ;  was  admirable, 
often,  in  its  execution  as  in  its  inception  ;  but  the  aggregate  of 
them,  and  that  which  the  aggregate  revealed — namely,  the  terri 
ble  mass  and  complication  of  the  needs,  the  frightful  multiply 
ing  and  differencing  of  that  mysterious  element  of  Wrong  in 
the  world,  that  these  outside  remedies,  working  at  the  surface 
and  unable  to  get  at  the  heart,  were  trying  to  right  —  dismayed 
her.  It  was  such  a  big  world,  so  irretrievably  snarled  up  before 
she  belonged  to  it ;  she  almost  wondered  what  she  was  put  here 
to  be  discouraged  for. 

A  good  deal  of  this  was  subjective,  no  doubt ;  there  had  been 
a  hitch  in  the  running  of  her  own  young  life,  and  it  made  her 
feel  all  the  retarding,  contrary  action, —  all  the  "keeping  on 
without  ever  coming  to  it,"  as  she  expressed  it  to  Miss  Amman, 
—  that  was  set  in  the  very  laws  of  things,  and  the  shape  the 
world  had  taken. 

" It  is  a  'round  and  round,'  Miss  Amman,"  she  said  one  day, 
coming  in  at  the  Berkeley,  after  a  hospital  visit  with  Mrs. 
Wait.e, —  where  she  had  heard  of  five  cases  that  there  were  no 
beds  for, —  and  an  hour  at  a  mission  class, —  where  one  bright, 
wicked  little  girl  had  gleefully  told  her  that  "  Nancy  was  n't 
coming  any  more,  and  she  guessed  she  'd  leave  off  too  after  to-day, 
now  she'd  got  her  apurns  done."  "  It 's  just  over  and  over, 
and  finding  yourself  back  at  the  beginning  all  the  time.  And 
you  can't  more  than  touch  it,  after  all." 

"  Well,  that's  the  way  of  the  sun,  too,"  replied  the  good 
lady ;  "and  the  mornings  and  evenings  will  have  to  keep  being 
the  days,  as  long  as  the  earth  stands,  I  suppose.  But  I  '11  tell 
you.  There  's  a  mistake  in  it,  too.  And  with  a  good  many  of 
you  it  isn't  so  much  like  the  evenings  and  mornings  as  it  is  like 
something  I  saw  and  laughed  at  one  day,  and  laid  up  for  a 
moral,  in  Fellaiden,  last  summer." 

"Oh,  do  give  me  a  breath  from  Fellaiden  ! "  France  responded, 
parting  her  lips  as  if  to  draw  in  a  great  gasp  of  mountain 
freshness  after  the  choke  and  flurry  and  sickening  miasm. 

"  It  was  a  sudden,  pelting  shower,"  said  Miss  Ammah,  "  and 

30 


466  ODD,   OR  EVEN  ? 

three  half-grown  turkeys  were  running  round  and  round  a 
gooseberry  bush,  looking  for  a  shelter.  They  kept  on,  heads  to 
tails,  just  following  each  other,  out  in  the  rain  all  the  time,  and 
never  knowing  that  they  were  running  in  a  circle.  They  were 
worse  off  than  if  there  had  n't  been  any  gooseberry  bush.  If 
they  had  only  dived  in  somewhere,  to  some  one  little  corner! " 

"  But  I  suppose  they  were  n't  near  any,  and  there  was  noth 
ing  but  the  bush  to  beat  about,"  said  France,  forgetting  after 
all  to  take  her  long  breath,  or  finding  something  in  the  way  of 
it.  "  I  think  people  who  have  a  corner  are  a  great  deal  the 
best  off.  The  big  round  outside  is  too  much  for  anybody  !  " 

"  And  it  always  will  be,"  said  radical  Miss  Amman,  "  so  long 
as  it 's  taken  at  the  outside.  Besides  which  it  grows  huger  and 
huger,  and  they  have  the  farther  and  the  faster  to  run.  If 
everything  was  right,  —  mind  I  don't  say  you  should  do  nothing 
at  all  outside  until  it  is,  —  but  if  everything  was  right  in  the 
midst  of  things,  there  would  n't  be  the  lots  of  frameworks  round 
things  that  take  up  the  strength  and  material  now.  No  politics, 
but  only  honest  working  at  public  work  ;  no  police  of  charities, 
but  just  everybody  loving  his  neighbor  as  himself,  and  so  ready 
with  his  right  hand  that  the  need  would  never  get  round  so  far  as 
to  let  the  left  hand  know.  The  ought  of  everything  would  be  the 
'  owing,'  —  look  in  your  Webster  for  that,  —  and  we  should  all 
be  paying  our  small  debts,  and  the  public  debt  would  be  getting 
paid  with  it,  as  we  went  along." 

"  They  have  to  begin  with  that  in  the  small  places,"  said 
France,  and  her  Fellaiden  breath  exhaled  in  a  sigh  of  recol 
lection.  The  things  that  Israel  Heybrook  had  said  to  her  that 
afternoon  up  on  Crowned  Head  came  back  to  her,  and  she  went 
off  thinking  about  them,  not  rmich  freshened,  truly,  by  the  Fel 
laiden  air  Miss  Ammah  had  uncorked  from  a  bottle. 

Rael  and  Mr.  Kingsworth  and  that  Miss  Leonora  were  living 
this  life  up  there.  "  How  green  and  sweet  the  earth  might  be," 
she  thought  as  she  trod  the  wide  brick-walks  between  the  stately 
buildings,  "  if  there  need  n't  be  these  conglomerated  cities  and 
all  this  storing  of  things  to  make  trade  out  of !  When  the  cir 
culation  congests  anywhere  in  the  human  body  it  makes  a  wen 
or  a  tumor,  I  suppose.  0  dear !  we  are  so  proud  of  our  con 
gestions  on  this  bewildered  little  planet !  " 


NINE  FROM   NOUGHT,    AND   FELLAIDEN   NEWS.     467 

"  I  wonder  if  there  are  n't  a  good  many  things  we  don't  '  owe ' 
to  do  that  we  undertake  to  do,  and  if  so  the  things  we  do  owe 
to  do  don't  get  left  undone  ? "  she  resumed  with  herself,  with 
certainly  a  very  nimble  play  upon  the  verb  "  to  do."  And  she 
came  to  the  partial  conclusion  that  "  dictionary-Bible  "  did  really 
throw  a  wonderful  deal  of  light. 

Only,  after  all,  she  could  n't  see  which  way  to  go.  Taking 
the  whole  city  of  Boston  on  her  hands  was  n't  going  to  settle 
any  single  little  own  "ought"  of  hers. 

There  was  still  her  individual,  restless  life  —  Frances  Ever- 
idge's  —  behind  it  all.  Something  in  which,  could  she  hear  it 
rightly,  there  must  be  the  individual  summons  and  placing, 
"  Come  hither,  my  child  !  Sit  here  —  stand  here  —  and  do  this 
little  work  —  all  thine  —  for  Me  !"  She  did  so  long  for  a  "cor 
ner."  She  thought  she  might  be  made  for  some  small  place, 
but  not  for  these  manifold  great  things.  She  knew  the  trouble 
was  that  she^had  attacked  them  in  bulk ;  she  had  not  come  to 
them  in  the  gradual  order  of  her  living,  by  the  leading  from 
inch  to  inch.  She  was  trying,  because  one  fair  stone  she  might 
have  laid  in  the  Building  had  dropped  from  her  grasp,  to  lift  up 
the  whole  side  of  the  Pyramid. 

The  call  came  to  her  for  just  a  present  time,  as  it  does  come 
often  through  the  very  working  of  our  laborious  self-perplexities 
to  cut  the  knot  of  them,  to  lie  down  and  to  endure.  France 
was  taken  ill. 

It  was  a  nervous  feverishness  settling  itself  upon  a  cold,  and 
threatening  to  drop  those  modifying  syllables  and  take  the  form 
of  asserted  malady.  She  was  good  for  nothing,  she  said  at  first ; 
then  prohibitions  were  laid  upon  her ;  then  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  be  good  for  nothing,  and  it  was  the  hardest  thing 
she  had  tried  yet. 

It  came  about,  though,  that  it  made  things  possible  for  saying 
and  doing,  without  which  —  yet  who  shall  say  without  what 
anything  might  not  have  happened  1 

For  one  thing,  and  the  chief  thing,  France  had  plenty  of 
time  to  think.  There  was  no  use  in  being  in  a  hurry  to 
do.  She  settled  a  good  deal  with  herself  carefully,  and  in  no 
hurry,  in  these  days.  And  presently  she  found  something 


468  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

very  distinct  to  do  in  regard  to  these  things  that  she  was 
settling. 

Also,  she  seemed  to  get  Miss  Amman  back  again  out  of  that 
restraint  and  aloofness.  The  good  woman  came  often  to  her, 
and  came  close.  The  young  girl  was  grown  very  dear  to  her 
heart  and  to  her  oldening  life. 

France  found  out,  too,  that  her  mother  was  getting  worn. 
The  long-continued  youthfulness  of  her  appearance  had  become 
encroached  upon  and  changed  with  this  winter  of  the  city,  of 
multiplied  interruptions  and  fatigues,  of  faster  unfolding  plans 
and  cares.  "  If  mamma  and  the  children  only  could  be  got 
away  to  a  place  like  Fellaiden  this  year !  "  she  thought.  "  I 
wonder  —  "  and  a  bright  idea  seized  her.  But  she  could  hardly 
be  so  bold,  in  any  way,  as  to  approach  it  just  now  in  her  com 
munications  with  Miss  Ammah.  The  "  children,"  Hortense  and 
Cornelia,  who  have  not  had  more  place  in  this  story  simply  be 
cause,  for  one  thing,  France's  home-life  has  had  so-  little  place 
in  it,  and  again,  because  they  two  had  heretofore  so  paired  off 
together  in  their  school-going  and  their  associations  with  their 
fellows,  as  the  two  elders  had  done  in  their  advanced  social  life, 
leaving  our  France  for  us  to  take  up,  since,  as  she  told  us  herself 
at  the  beginning,  she  was  rather  skipped  in  the  family,  — these 
young  girls  found  their  way  to  France  now  that  she  was  station 
ary,  and  began  to  discover  that  she  was  "  a  good  deal  jollier  than 
they  knew."  On  her  part,  she  learned  something  of  what  she 
might  have  to  do  right  here  "  in  the  middle,"  between  what  had 
grown  up  and  could  not  be  helped  and  what  was  growing  up  and 
ought  to  be  helped  a  great  deal.  She  began  to  recognize  that, 
merely  as  a  kind  of  moral  breakwater,  it  might  not  be  in  vain  and 
might  not  have  been  accidental  that  she,  the  odd  one,  had  been 
so  set  in  the  midst. 

Mr.  Everidge  substituted  a  half-hour  in  France's  room  every 
day  for  that  second  occasional  cigar.  He  learned  a  good  deal 
of  her,  really,  without  her  knowing  it.  For  one  thing,  that 
book  of  the  Great  Pyramid  —  of  which  you,  reader,  are  perhaps 
a  little  tired,  but  through  which  such  wonderful  ideas  had  come 
to  France  —  lay  on  her  book-table  as  she  was  slowly  getting 
better  and  was  allowed  more  freedom  in  occupation.  She  and 


NINE   FBOM  NOUGHT,   AND   FELLAIDEN   NEWS.     469 

her  father  came  to  talking  of  it.  There  were  absolute  verities 
of  life  presented  there  that  were  tangible,  inevasible ;  founded 
upon  nothing  that  could  be  set  aside  as  a  myth,  a  theory,  but 
fixed  in  the  visible  laws  of  things. 

Mr.  Everidge  was  greatly  interested,  though  when  theory 
followed  fact  he  was  far  from  ready  to  go"  on  with  it  to  all  its 
conclusions.  But  he  was  surprised  to  find  his  little  Fran'  had 
managed  to  get  hold  of  such  things. 

One  day,  —  I  must  make  rapid  points  now,  for  I  have  told 
my  simple  story  all  too  leisurely,  unless  you  grant  that  the  real 
story  is  in  the  slow  and  gradual  things,  —  Miss  Amman  came 
in  with  a  pocketful  of  letters  and  a  face  full  of  news.  She  kept 
the  letters  in  her  pocket  for  a  while,  but  she  could  not  keep  the 
budget  out  of  her  face. 

"  You  look  brimful,  Miss  Amman,"  said  France.  "  What 
has  been  happening,  or  is  going  to  1 " 

"  Some  things  that  are  brimful  choke  up  with  it,  and  pour 
slowly.  I  'm  a  long-necked  bottle,  France.  Give  me  time." 

"  '  All  the  time  there  is,'  "  said  France.  "  But  remember  it 
will  be  time  for  me  to  fancy  everything  conceivable." 

And  some  eagerness,  as  ill-repressed  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  her 
own  fulness  in  hers,  admonished  Miss  Tredgold. 

"  I  won't  worry  you.  But,  for  one  thing,  I  'm  going  up  to 
Fellaiden  to  see  the  spring  come  out  there,  if  I  can't  have  the 
summer,  and  to  furnish  my  house." 

"0  Miss  Ammah  !  "  France  lifted  herself  up  on  her  elbow 
upon  the  low  couch  where  she  rested.  "  Take  me  with  you, 
Miss  Ammah  !  " 

"  Well,  that  is  outright.  I  like  that.  I  've  been  waiting 
for  that,  —  or  something.  I  did  n't  dare,  —  but  why,  France  ] " 

"  0,  I  want  the  country  so  !  Papa  is  fidgety  to  get  me  out 
to  the  Place,  but  mamma  has  been  so  snarled  up  with  engage 
ments  that  she  could  n't  get  rid  of,  and  she  is  so  tired,  too, 
herself.  And  Fellaiden  would  be  so  much  better  !  " 

"  Why,  France  1 "  persisted  conscience-quickened  Miss  Ammah, 
•who  meant  to  know  what  she  was  about  this  time.  "  I  don't 
mean  what  for,  —  you  need  n't  say  anything  you  don't  want  to, 
—  but—" 


470  ODD,    OB    EVEN  ? 

France  helped  her  out.  This  gleam  of  possibility  restored  to 
her  her  old  sprightly  quickness. 

"  Just  generally  why  1  I  '11  tell  you,  Miss  Ammah.  I  want 
to  see  how  the  spring  does  come  up  there.  I  want  to  see  how 
the  water  comes  down  from  Lodore  when  all  the  brooks  are  full. 
And  I  want  to  see,  with  my  own  eyes,  other  things.  Because 
I  had  a  piece  of  my  life  there  last  summer,  you  good,  dear 
woman  !  "  And  France  laid  the  arm  she  was  not  leaning  on 
right  across  Miss  Ammah's  knees,  and  looked  up  in  her  face  with 
pure,  unafraid  eyes. 

"  I  like  that,"  repeated  Miss  Ammah,  putting  her  hand  softly 
on  France's  sleeve,  and  with  more  yet  in  her  face  than  she  wot 
of  from  her  heart.  "  But  —  I  can't  say,  France.  I  must  have 
leave  all  round.  And  now  I  've  got  news  to  tell  you  from  Fel- 
laiden." 

A  little  blench  flittered  across  those  gentle-dauntless  eyes. 
France  took  her  arm  off  Miss  Ammah's  knees,  and  leaned  back 
again.  What  news  could  it  be  1 

"And  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  Israel  Heybrook.  He 
says  he  wanted  to  tell  you  the  news  himself,  you  had  been  so 
his  friend." 

Miss  Ammah  was  probing.  It  seemed  cruel  to  herself,  but 
as  a  responsible  woman  she  must  do  it  now. 

Every  vestige  of  color  went  out  of  France's  sweet,  upturned 
face,  as  it  had  done  that  day  when  Miss  Ammah  had  told  her 
at  the  Berkeley  about  going  off  this  year  to  Europe. 

There  was  no  need  of  probing  any  more.  She  had  found  the 
ball. 

Miss  Ammah  took  a  handful  of  letters  from  her  pocket  and 
gave  France  one. 

"  You  are  tired,"  she  said.  "  I  sha'  n't  talk  to  you  any  more 
now.  I  '11  come  again  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  see  about  Fellaideu. 
But  I  shall  give  you  your  claret  before  I  go." 

Miss  Ammah  turned  to  a  pretty  little  bedroom  buffet,  and 
poured  out  some  wine  and  water,  sugared  it  delicately,  and 
brought  it  over  to  the  sofa.  "  You  must  get  stronger  if  you  're 
to  go  up  the  hills,"  she  said. 

France  smiled  a  pitiful  little  smile.     "  Yes,  perhaps  I  must," 


NINE   FROM   NOUGHT,    AND   FELLAIDEN   NEWS.     471 

she  said.  All  the  sudden  buoyancy  had  dropped  away  from 
her.  But  she  took  the  wine. 

And  then  Miss  Ammah  went,  —  rather  in  a  hurry.  She 
pulled  her  pocket-handkerchief  out  the  minute  she  had  shut 
the  door  behind  her,  and  I  think,  if  the  truth  were  told,  she 
wiped  first  one  eye  and  then  the  other  all  the  way  down 
stairs. 

France  took  up  the  letter.  Her  name  stood  in  fine,  strong 
script  upon  the  back, — her  name,  in  Israel  Heybrook's  hand 
writing. 

The  letter  was  not  sealed.  Had  Miss  Ammah  read  it,  then  ? 
Had  he  meant  she  should  ?  It  could  be  very  little,  especially, 
after  all,  to  herself,  then.  Or  —  but  of  course,  there  could  be 
nothing  in  it  that  could  make  it  much  —  so  much  that  — 
What  folly  of  nonsense  was  she  thinking1? 

There  could  be  but  one  piece  of  news,  she  supposed,  that  Rael 
•would  write  about  so  signally.  And  she  had  at  any  rate  to 
read  the  letter. 

It  could  be  no  worse  after  than  now.  Worse  1  Had  she  not 
to  be  glad  for  Rael  ?  Was  she  not  his  friend,  —  promised 
for  "  always  "  1 

So  she  drew  out  the  little  sheet  from  the  envelope.  She 
remembered,  as  she  did  so,  how  she  had  received  and  treated 
that  one  note  that  Mr.  Kingsworth  had  written  her.  A  com 
punction  that  she  had  not  then  been  capable  of  smote  through 
her.  Oh,  she  hoped  good  Mr.  Kingsworth  was  quite  happy  now  ! 
And  she  wondered  —  all  in  the  minute  in  which  she  slowly 
opened  the  two  folds  of  the  letter  —  how  people,  after  such 
things,  attained  to  be. 

And  this  was  what  she  read  :  — 

"  DEAR  Miss  FRANCE,  —  I  should  not  have  troubled  you  with 
any  little  thing  about  myself,  though  I  have  never  forgotten 
that  you  said  you  would  be  my  friend,  and  that  you  listened  so 
kindly  to  all  my  plans,  and  that  which  I  had  to  think  about 
when  you  were  here.  But  something  has  happened  to  me  —  to 
us  all  —  now,  which  makes  me  feel  that  I  can  take  the  liberty 
of  writing ;  that  it  belongs  to  you  to  hear  from  me  what  so  hap 
pily  concerns  us. 


472  ODD,    OR    EVEN  ? 

"  Miss  Ammah  will  have  told  you  —  " 

France  stopped  here  in  her  reading,  partly  puzzled,  partly 
shrinking  to  go  further. 

Miss  Ammah  had  told  her  nothing ;  and  something  had  hap 
pened  to  them  all. 

Well,  would  it  not  be  to  all,  —  this  happiness,  that  she  knew 
she  was  afraid  was  the  happening  to  Rael  ]  She  was  resolutely 
blind  to  each  succeeding  line ;  she  would  not  glance  over  this 
letter.  It  should  come  to  her  as  it  must,  and  it  had  all  got  to 
be  read ;  so  she  lifted  it  up  again. 

"  Miss  Ammah  will  have  told  you  that  my  uncle,  Deacon 
Ambrose  Newell,  died  ten  days  ago.  He  was  only  sick  a  week. 
Miss  France,  I  will  never  blame  any  one,  I  think,  again.  I  have 
been  despising  poor  Uncle  Amb  all  my  life,  and  now  the  noble 
ness  has  got  free  in  him  at  the  very  end,  and  he  has  done  every 
thing  that  he  should  do  by  us.  And  I  could  n't  forgive  Sarell 
for  making  her  wedding  gowns  and  leaving  my  mother  as  she 
did,  when  it  turns  out  she  took  that  time  for  it  that  she  might 
keep  Hollis  on  at  the  Hollow,  and  be  there  herself  to  do  just 
what  she  has  done,  —  save  my  old  uncle's  soul,  and  bring  back 
our  rights  to  us.  It  is  all  her  doing  —  I  mean,  that  it  was  in 
time ;  for  Uncle  Amb  had  it  in  his  heart  always,  only  kept  put 
away,  as  he  kept  everything. 

"  To  tell  you  the  whole  story,  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that 
we  are  richer  by  full  ten  thousand  dollars.  Of  course,  we  don't 
mean  to  take  anything  from  the  widow  from  the  sale  of  stock, 
&c. 

"  And  now,  Miss  France,  I  can  choose.  And  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  my  choice  is  just  the  same,  and  for  the  same  reasons, 
that  it  was  the  day  I  told  you  all  about  it  on  Crowned  Head.  I 
see  a  life  here  that  I  think  I  can  live,  and  that  there  are  not 
many  people  to  live.  Perhaps  it  never  has  been  tried  just  as  I 
mean  to  try  it.  I  mean  to  get,  and  grow  into,  as  fast  as  I  can, 
the  very  best  that  books  and  thinking,  which  are  the  ways  of 
the  going  of  truth  through  the  world,  can  give  me ;  and  I 
mean  to  put  it  all  into  every  particular  of  this  simple  everyday 
doing  up  here,  at  the  fii-st  sources  of  things  that  men  work  for, 
—  daily  bread.  I  think  it  may  be  the  hoiiestest,  grandest  life  a 


NINE   FROM  NOUGHT,   AND   FELLAIDEN  NEWS.     473 

man   can  live,  and  help  show  others  how  to  live.     And  Mr. 
Kingsworth  thinks  so  too. 

"  This  is  all  my  news ;  if  you  still  care  for  it,  it  is  reason 
enough  for  my  letter.  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  any  more  of 
myself;  but  I  will  say  that  there  is  nothing  in  me  that  has  not 
been  made  better  —  yes,  and  happier  —  because  I  have  known 
such  as  you. 

"  I  am  very  thankfully  and  truly  your  friend, 

"ISRAEL  WELCOME  HEYBROOK." 

"  Such  as."  How  much  did  those  two  words  mean  1  In  them 
lay  all  the  possibility  of  a  sting  to  France  in  this  manly  letter 
that  she  was  proud  of,  and  of  course  she  stung  herself  with 
them. 

If  she  had  only  known  how  determined  an  effort  it  had  cost 
him  to  put  them  in  ! 


474  ODD,   OB  EVEN? 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

"  THOSE  DOZEN   YEARS   OF   OURS." 

THE  next  day  was  Saturday,  —  the  home  day.  Miss  Ammah 
came  to  early  dinner,  and  invited  herself  afterward  into  Mr. 
Everidge's  smoking-room.  Miss  Ammah  made  her  own  oppor 
tunities.  "I  want. to  talk  to  you,  George,"  she  said.  And 
when  they  were  cosily  seated,  —  the  one  with  match-box  and 
ash-tray  beside  him,  and  the  twisted  leaf  in  his  mouth,  which  he 
began  to  spiritualize  into  white  wreaths  and  rings  of  cloudy  fra 
grance,  and  the  other  with  a  knitting-basket  of  softly  dropped, 
snowy  wool,  which  was  being  frothed  up  by  the  play  of  her 
needles  with  its  cobweb  thread  into  something  almost  as  vapory, 
—  she  began. 

The  window  was  wide  open  to-day,  and  the  room  was  full  of 
broad,  long,  afternoon  sunlight. 

"  You  '11  get  out  of  town  next  week,  then."  It  had  been  said 
so  at  the  dinner-table.  France  had  been  there,  but  she  had 
gone  back  to  the  quiet  of  her  own  room  again. 

"  Yes.  It 's  high  time.  High  time  for  everybody  else,  as 
well  as  for  poor  Fran'.  How  is  the  child  coming  on,  do  you 
think?" 

"  Better.     She  only  wants  a  change." 

"  Yes.  She  has  her  long  drive  out  of  town  every  day  now  ; 
but  that  is  not  enough.  She  must  ride  out,  and  not  come  back 
again." 

"  What  I  think  is,  that  it  would  be  good  for  her  to  go  off  and 
not  come  back  again  till  you  are  all  settled.  The  bustle  and 
upset  will  be  just  what  she  can't  bear." 

"  I  know.  But  I  don't  know  of  any  way  that  it  could  be 
managed." 


"THOSE   DOZEN   YEARS   OF   OURS."  475 

"  I  do.  I  never  say  '  ought/  if  I  can  help  it,  without  know 
ing  where  the  '  can  '  is." 

"  Of  course  not.  You  're  the  canniest  person  I  ever  met  with. 
Very  well." 

"  I  'm  going  up  to  Fellaiden  next  week.  The  paper-hanger 
and  the  carpet-man  have  just  come  down,  and  a  car-load  of  fur 
niture  has  just  gone  up.  I  'm  going  to  straighten  my  house,  to 
come  back  to  in  September.  Fran'  could  be  quiet,  out  of  all 
my  turmoil,  at  the  farmhouse.  Of  course,  I  should  be  there, 
too,  until  —  in  a  few  days,  I  guess  —  I  could  warm  up,  and  she 
could  come  to  me.  Would  you  let  her  go  1 " 

"  If  what  1 " 

"  If  I  asked  her.  It 's  fair  to  say  that  she  has  asked  me, 
already.  What  I  want  is  leave  to  ask  her." 

"  You  mean  something,  Ammah.    What  made  her  ask  you  1 " 

"That's  just  what  I  won't  be  responsible  for.  I  don't  want 
you  to  trust  her  to  me.  If  you  like  Fellaiden  for  her,  I  '11  take 
her,  and  be  thankful  to.  That 's  all." 

The  corners  of  Mr.  Everidge's  lips  and  eyebrows  dropped  just 
a  little.  I  think  a  man  always  resents  the  first  notion  that  his 
daughter  can  care  for  any  man. 

"  If  you  mean  that  young  preacher,"  he  said,  with  a  slight 
protesting  effort,  "  Fran'  is  n't  the  girl  to  —  " 

"  Run  after  anybody.  I  know  that,"  said  Miss  Ammah, 
quickly.  "  But  she  's  just  the  girl  to  give  herself  no  peace  till 
she  finds  out  the  truth  of  things,  and  whether  she  's  been  mak 
ing  a  mistake  —  that  would  be  more  than  a  mistake  for  one." 

"  You  think  she  has  made  a  mistake  ?  " 

"  I  'm  pretty  sure  of  it.  But  —  now  don't  jump  at  me, 
George  Everidge,  or  tip  anything  over.  I  don't  think  it 's  about 
the  minister." 

Mr.  Everidge  did  not  tip  over  anything ;  but  he  tipped  the 
wrong  end  of  his  cigar  against  the  ash-tray,  and  came  very  near 
putting  the  other,  not  the  right  one,  into  his  mouth.  It  was 
on  the  way  there,  apparently,  but  hindered  by  the  impossibility 
to  him  of  resuming  his  smoke  till  this  startling  woman  had  been 
more  explicit.  He  got  so  far,  intending  to  be  quite  cool  and 
unapprehensive,  while  he  looked  at  his  companion  for  an  an- 


476  ODD,   OB   EVEN  ? 

swer  to  his  immediate,  and  not  altogether  calm  "What  on 
earth,  then  ]  Who  ?  I  don't  understand  you,  Ammah  !  " 

"Understanding  is  just  about  the  last  thing  people  do  do," 
returned  Miss  Ammah.  "  If  we  could  do  that,  there  would  n't 
be  any  need  of  going  through  the  world  at  all.  But  to  make 
anybody  else  understand,  —  no,  I  don't  really  expect  to.  Only 
just,  —  if  you'd  wait  till  you  do,  and  then  make  up  your  own 
mind,  for  I  don't  want  to  be  trusted  !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  'd  better  be  !  How  am  I  to  come  at 
anything,  if  there 's  anything  to  come  at  ] "  interjected  Mr. 
Everidge,  with  an  impatience  impatient  at  itself. 

"  Turn  your  cigar  round,  George,"  admonished  Miss  Ammah. 
"  France  got  a  letter  from  Fellaiden,  yesterday.  I  don't  know 
a  word  that 's  in  it ;  but  I  '11  venture  to  say  she  '11  show  it  to 
you  if  you  ask  her,  and  that  there  '11  be  something  in  it  that  '11 
say  for  itself.  But  it  was  before  the  letter  that  she  asked  me. 
And  one  thing  —  children  come  to  a  time  when  they've  their 
lives  to  live  for  themselves ;  we  are  apt  to  forget  that,  and 
France  —  yes,  I  think  she  is  a  grown  woman,  now  ;  which  half 
the  girls  are  n't,  and  never  come  to." 

There  was  a  letter  of  France's  own,  which  Mr.  Everidge  recol 
lected  at  these  words,  lying  close  under  his  elbow  in  a  drawer  in 
his  writing-table,  —  a  letter  which,  when  his  wife  had  shown  it 
to  him,  one  day  last  summer,  he  had  taken  from  her  and  had 
put  away  to  keep ;  in  the  same  drawer  was  a  little  pair  of  shoes 
that  France  had  first  run  alone  in  :  they  belonged  together,  he 
thought.  Men  do  lay  by  things  like  that,  though  they  are  not 
commonly  credited  with  such  sentiment. 

Yes,  he  remembered  very  well  that  France  had  been  peculiar 
in  her  running  alone.  She  had  not  blundered  and  tumbled  into 
it ;  she  had  quietly  made  up  her  mind  one  day  that  it  was  time, 
and  she  had  picked  herself  up  and  done  it.  It  was  for  that  he 
had  put  the  little  shoes  away.  Now  —  well,  perhaps  she  did 
see  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  run  alone  again.  Only,  he  would 
stand  by  if  he  could,  and  take  care  there  should  be  nothing 
too  dangerous  in  her  way. 

"  I  '11  go  up  and  see  Fran',"  he  said,  dropping  his  cigar,  that 
had  lost  its  relish,  into  the  scrap-jar. 


"THOSE   DOZEN    YEARS   OF   OURS."  477 

"  Do  ;  and  I  '11  wait  here,"  answered  Miss  Ammah. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  say  anything,  or  that  she  will," 
said  Mr.  Everidge.  There  is  one  half  of  the  human  creation, 
and  there  may  be  just  another  quarter,  perhaps,  out  of  the  other 
half,  which  does  n't  like  to  seem  to  do  anything  exactly  as  it  is 
advised. 

But  Miss  Ammah  waited.  "  They  both  will ;  and  now  I  can 
have  a  clear  mind." 

"  So  you  think  you  want  to  go  up  to  Fellaiden  1 "  Mr.  Ever 
idge  asked  his  daughter,  a  little  suddenly,  and  perhaps  on  pur 
pose,  when  he  had  sat  by  her,  speaking  of  things  indifferent,  for 
about  five  minutes. 

"  I  want  to  go  very  much,  papa,"  France  answered  him,  with 
that  still,  brave  look  in  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  able  ?"  the  question  was  a  slight  re 
treat  on  his  part. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  thing  for  me  to  do.  It  is  a  right  way  and 
time.  It  will  make  me  able." 

That  word  "  able  "  reminded  him  again.  Here  was  this  child 
of  his,  with  a  life  before  her  that  she  herself  had  to  be  able  for, 
not  he  for  her. 

"  ¥ou  have  heard  from  your  friends  up  there,  Miss  Ammah 
tells  me  ]  " 

"  Yes.  But  if  I  had  not  heard  I  should  have  liked  to  go.  They 
have  had  some  good  fortune,  papa.  I  should  like  to  tell  them 
now  how  glad  I  am." 

"  You  could  write  that." 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  see  how  glad  they  are.  I  want  to  see 
some  other  things.  I  got  into  their  story,  last  summer,  papa." 

"Fran',  has  it  anything  to  do  with  those  dozen  years  of 
mine  1 " 

A  swift  blush  ran  up  into  her  face.  But  she  looked  brave, 
in  all  sweet  modesty,  still ;  and  she  caught  up  her  weapons. 

"  How  can  I  tell  what  anything  might  have  to  do  with  those 
dozen  years  of  ours,  papa  1  But  not  that,  not  a  bit,"  she  said  ; 
and  for  the  first  moment  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  n't 
go  to  Fellaiden  without  some  touching,  by  her  very  presence, 
of  that  other  chapter  of  the  story. 


478  ODD,    OR   EVEN? 

"Only,  what  we  all  want  is  the  very  truth,"  her  own  coura 
geous  purpose  enabled  her  to  answer  for  Bernard  Kingsworth. 
She  was  going  for  the  truth,  and  to  be  true.  Nobody  need  be 
afraid  of  that. 

While  she  thought  of  it  so,  her  father  was  thinking  of  "  those 
dozen  years  of  ours."  Would  they  be  "  ours  "  if  he  were  a  separ 
ating  power  between  France  and  anything  that  might  actually 
belong  to  her  in  those  years  1  And  might  n't  they  be  theirs  to 
gether,  whatever  they  might  bring,  if  it  could  only  be  received 
—  but  how  could  it  if  it  were  this,  the  only  thing  that  he  could 
think  of? 

It  was  not  strange  that  Mr.  Everidge  revolted  at  this  but- 
half-understood  possibility.  The  remarkable  thing  thus  far  was 
taat  he  could  tolerate  for  an  instant  the  consideration  of  such 
a  possibility  at  all.  Nothing  but  the  sort  of  girl  that  he  saw  in 
every  line  and  look,  and  heard  in  every  word  and  tone,  his 
France  to  be,  could  have  held  his  absolute  counter-dictation  in 
suspense  before  it.  Nothing  but  that,  although  his  estimate 
of  Miss  Tredgold  was  such  that,  whether  she  would  be  trusted 
or  not,  he  would  always  think  twice  before  he  ran  blindly 
against  anything  that  she  had  even  remotely  furthered. 

Nothing  but  that,  although  it  was  no  thanks  to  him,  he  felt, 
that  it  had  come  to  be  so  with  his  Fran'.  He  only  realized,  as 
we  do  when  we  have  brought  all  our  children  up,  that  by  that 
time  there  is  either  little  use  or  little  need  of  interference. 

"Papa,  I  should  like  to  have  you  see  this  letter."  France 
held  it  out  to  him  from  her  little  work-basket. 

Mr.  Everidge,  but  for  this  act  of  hers,  would  have  been  hard 
bestead  how  next  or  further  to  proceed.  When  she  had  said, 
"  Not  that,  not  a  bit,"  to  interrogate,  "  What  was  it,  then  1 "  and 
to  ask  for  what  somebody  up  there  had  written  to  her,  —  I  think 
Mr.  Everidge  would  have  left  the  room  and  gone  down  and 
trusted  Miss  Ammah  by  force  with  the  whole  affair,  before  he 
would  have  done  that. 

But  here  was  his  Fran'  again  !  Truly,  between  two  right- 
minded  persons,  neither  has  ever  to  do  the  whole  of  a  right 
thing. 

He  took  it,  and  read  it  through.     He  had  not  forgotten 


"THOSE  DOZEN   YEAKS   OF   OUKS."  479 

Israel  Heybrook,  the  young  man  who  had  said  it  was  "  hard  to 
shoot  over  a  man's  head,  if  you  once  got  it  lifted  up,"  and  that 
"a  man's  measure,  in  some  things,  is  made  to  be  about  the 
same." 

Every  word  of  this  letter  was  the  word  of  a  man  whose  head 
had  got  lifted  up ;  every  word  was  according  to  the  measure  of 
such  a  man.  There  was  nothing  mean  or  unformed  in  the  very 
handwriting. 

Miss  Ammah  had  done  well  to  venture  to  say,  without  hav 
ing  read  a  syllable  of  it,  that  a  letter  from  such  a  man  would 
speak  for  itself.  And  how  well  she  must  have  known  him,  too, 
and  this  measure  of  him,  to  be  sure  of  that !  Mr.  Everidge 
thought  of  what  he  had  consented  to,  —  of  little  Sampson  Kay- 
nard,  who  was  his  son-in-law. 

When  he  placed  the  sheet  in  the  envelope  again,  and  gave  it 
back  to  his  daughter,  he  said,  —  and  insensibly  he  took  the 
tone  of  dealing  now  as  with  any  possible,  credible  thing,  —  "I 
should  like  just  to  ask,  —  has  Mr.  Heybrook  ever  spoken  to  you 
of  anything  more  than  friendship  1 " 

The  color  was  high  again,  but  the  eyes  were  steady  and  the 
voice  was  clear.  "  No,  never,  papa.  He  has  only  spoken  so  of 
my  being  his  friend  as  if —  But  I  will  tell  you,  papa.  I  have 
not  a  thought  in  my  mind  that  I  would  not  be  glad  you  should 
see,  if  you  could  see  it  without  any  telling  at  all.  He  would 
not  have  said  such  a  thing  then.  He  would  not  have  thought 
it  was  right ;  and  I  don't  know  as  he  would  ever.  It  is  n't  that 
part  of  it.  papa.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see,  because  he  may 
be  going  to  say  it  to  quite  another  person  now ;  but  I  did  this  : 
I  made  him  feel,  feeling  it  myself,  that  there  was  a  great  dif 
ference  between  us ;  and  so  there  is,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
superb  humility,  "and  I  want — just  once  —  to  let  him  see  that 
the  difference  is  up,  and  not  down,  from  me,  and  that  I  know  it. 
I  'm  very  proud,  papa ;  you  need  n't  think  I  would  n't  be ;  but 
I  'm  too  proud  to  let  that  slight  stay,  —  there.  And  I  want 
things,  whatever  they  are,  to  be  true.  People  do  stand  so  mean 
and  helpless  sometimes,  and  let  them  slip  away  into  untrueness." 

George  Everidge,  getting  up  to  go,  stood  there  wondering 
inwardly,  how  it  had  happened  to  him,  with  his  careless  train- 


480  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

ing,  to  find,  where  he  had  but  had  a  little  child  beside  him,  run 
ning  alone,  all  at  once  a  grand  girl  like  this  coming  to  him,  frank 
and  daughterly,  with  what  was  in  her  heart,  as  if  he  had  been 
grand  altogether,  too.  "  I  stand  for  it  to  her,"  was  his  solution 
to  himself  afterward.  "  She  is  a  perfect  child,  and  takes  a  per 
fect  father  for  granted." 

Verily,  there  are  many  things  in  which  we  can  only  repre 
sent  that  which  was  thought  of  for  us  when  we  were  made  in 
the  image  of  the  Heavenly  ! 

All  Mr.  Everidge  did,  just  then  and  there,  was  to  kiss  France, 
and  tell  her  she  was  a  good  girl. 

Downstairs,  after  sitting  half  an  hour  with  Miss  Tredgold 
and  a  newspaper,  without  the  lealst  civility  of  attention  to 
either,  he  said  to  the  lady,  "  I  '11  take  her  off  your  hands, 
Ainmah.  I  '11  trust  herself.  But  I  'm  doing  the  most  extraor 
dinary  things  lately  !  Do  you  think  I  am  quite  fit  to  be  kept 
out  of  Somerville  1 " 

Perhaps  France,  in  her  capacity  for  nobleness,  and  also  in 
her  occasionally  odd  style  of  giving  way  to  it,  was  not  alto 
gether  so  unaccountable,  as  her  father's  child. 


CHIMES.  481 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

CHIMES. 

IT  is  Sunday  again,  the  Day  of  Light.  Shall  we  skip  the 
Sun  Day  ? 

It  is  Easter  Sunday,  the  Day  of  the  Light  of  Life ;  of  the 
coming  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord  by  the  way  of  the  East.  Shall 
we  skip  the  Easter  Sun  Day  ] 

Of  all  the  pauses  which  the  recurring  rest  makes  in  our  com 
mon  living  and  action,  the  sweetest,  I  think,  is  when  it  comes 
between  a  plan  or  decision  of  a  doing  that  we  greatly  desire 
and  that  is  good  for  us,  and  the  doing  itself,  or  between  the  good 
news  of  something  and  the  fulfilling  of  the  news.  It  is  a  rest  of 
certainty  and  anticipation,  in  which  the  thought  and  hope  come 
gladly  again  and  again  to  us.  It  is  a  rest  we  should  not  take 
for  ourselves  in  our  eagerness,  but  of  which  we  find  the  tender 
ness  of  the  providing. 

This  was  such  a  day  to  Frances  Everidge. 

She  was  to  go  in  three  days  more,  in  this  lovely  early  spring 
time,  in  a  quite  right  and  natural  way,  and  with  her  whole  body 
and  spirit  craving  together  the  Tightness  and  the  help  of  it,  — 
to  Fellaiden  among  the  hills. 

That  it  was  open  to  her,  that  there  was  nothing  between 
her  and  it  forbidding  her  to  go,  —  as  her  very  consciousness  of 
need  seemed  forbidding  her  when  her  one  link  and  chance  had 
been  about  to  be  removed,  and  the  great,  whole  year  to  be 
growing  on,  as  other  years,  maybe,  would  follow  and  grow,  be 
tween  her  and  that  piece  of  her  life  that  she  would  only  have 
lived  as  a  fragment,  to  be  broken  quite  off  and  cast  away,  — 
this  was  a  great  lifting. 

It  was  a  showing  to  her  that  nothing  is  cast  away  and  done 
with,  that  the  lines  and  colors  once  let  in  reappear  in  the  pattern 


482  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

and  make  it  out ;  that  life  is  not  a  "  crazy  wrap,"  made  of  odds 
and  ends,  some  of  which  God  has  no  more  left  of.  The  bright, 
soft  rug,  in  which  even  the  odds  and  ends  were  managed  with  a 
method,  that  she  drew  up  over  her  feet  upon  the  sofa  where 
she  settled  herself  with  her  books,  made  her  think  of  this. 

Everything  made  her  think  of  everything  hopeful.  One 
thing  was  sure  :  she  was  going  to  know  the  truth,  and  the 
truth  would  make  her  free.  Nothing  would  be  slipping  away 
from  her,  or  from  anybody,  for  want  of  knowing  ;  then  she 
thought  she  could  have  courage  to  live  her  life  on,  because  she 
would  be  certain  that  it  was  her  life. 

She  had  brought  down  with  her  the  two  books  that  she  was 
most  interested  just  now  to  think  into, — her  Bible,  and  the 
Prayer  Book  that  she  had  not  been  brought  up  by,  but  which 
she  had  come  to  use  of  late  through  mere  circumstance  to 
follow  the  worship  in  the  church  she  had  been  attending.  She 
was  discovering  meanings  in  it  that  have  been  perhaps  much 
covered  up  in  the  church  by  the  very  ritual  of  them,  and 
which  by  rediscovery  are  so  freshly  beautiful.  She  was  reading 
it  as  she  had  read  that  other  book  about  the  wonder  in  stone. 
Here  was  a  wonder  of  some  life  that  had  been  in  the  world, 
grown  from  the  beginning  of  the  New  Testament,  and  the 
heart  of  which,  whatever  the  superpositions  might  be,  was  the 
heart  and  secret  of  that. 

She  wondered  if  the  little  children  would  sing  "  0  all  ye 
•works  of  the  Lord,"  to-day. 

Her  father  looked  in  just  before  he  went  out  with  his  wife  to 
the  morning  service.  "  So  you  are  here,  little  Fran'  ]  Morris 
is  in.  Ring,  if  you  want  anything.  Is  that  conservatory  win 
dow  too  much  for  you  1 " 

"  Not  a  bit,  papa ;  everything  is  east  to-day  but  the  wind." 

Mr.  Everidge  glanced  at  the  book  in  her  hand.  "You  are 
getting  to  be  quite  a  little  churchwoman,"  he  said ;  and  it  did 
not  sound  exactly  as  a  careless,  passing  remark. 

"  I  don't  know,  papa.  I  don't  know  very  much  about  the 
church.  But  there  are  things  that  I  am  glad  have  been  left  in 
the  world  till  I  could  find  them.  I  think  some  great  thing  — 
that  ought  to  take  us  all  in  —  must  have  been  keeping  in  the 
midst  of  the  churches,  somewhere  ! " 


CHIMES.  483 

The  King's  Chamber,  sealed  up  in  the  heart  of  the  Build 
ing. 

Mr.  Everidge  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  "  If  you  find 
your  way  into  it,  hold  up  your  torch  for  me.  Don't  vanish  in, 
away  from  me  !  "  and  still  his  word,  that  wore  a  playfulness, 
was  not  just  playful.  And  then  France  was  left  alone. 

The  wind  came  in  softly  from  the  south  over  the  heads  of 
the  blossoms.  On  it  floated  the  Easter  chimes,  —  Easter  chimes 
and  Easter  incense.  The  churches  would  be  full  of  flowers  and 
fragrance  to-day. 

The  bells  played  Coronation.  The  slow,  sweet  strokes  rang 
forth  the  melody,  drop  by  drop. 

"  Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crown  him  Lord  of  all !  " 

The  memory  of  the  words  drifted  in  with  the  joyous  notes. 

Crowned  King.  He  who  had  come  Conqueror  out  of  the  land 
of  the  enemy ;  His  garments  dyed  red  with  the  wounds  of 
battle ;  King  of  the  whole  earth :  did  not  the  triumphant 
Easter  peal  say  that  1 

Was  not  that  the  whole  of  it  ?  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  King  of 
the  Jews.  And  the  Jews  were  the  Hebrew  people,  the  people 
who  had  come  forth  from  beyond  the  Euphrates,  the  people 
who  should  fill  up  the  real  Jerusalem. 

"  Israel : "  the  Priests  and  the  Servants,  and  the  Spirits  and 
Souls  of  all  the  Righteous ;  the  holy  and  humble  Men  of 
Heart.  What  a  beautiful  name-word  that  Israel  was  !  she  was 
glad  to  think  that  her  friend,  being  what  he  was,  should  bear  it. 

And  so  her  thoughts  came  round  to,  as  they  kept  hovering 
toward,  Fellaiden  among  the  hills. 

This  work  here,  that  she  had  just  begun  upon  ?  These  poor 
ones,  whose  hills  were  difficulties,  who  could  get  away  to  no 
Fellaiden  ?  She  had  not  forgotten  them.  She  was  not  tired  of 
them.  But  what  she  was  really  to  do  about  them,  —  was  there 
nothing  that  should  tell  her  that,  more  rightly  than  the  mere 
impulse  to  escape  from  her  own  tangle  by  an  impetuous  pull  at 
the  grand  snarl  of  the  world  ?  The  King  of  the  world,  would 
He  not  tell  her  that  ?  She  had  brought  His  words  down  here 
to-day  to  see. 


484  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

The  words,  alive,  came  forth  to  meet  her.  Before  she  called, 
the  answer,  as  it  does  out  of  that  word,  planted  in  us  insensibly 
since  this  world  has  become  Christendom,  began  to  utter  itself. 

There  was  a  story  there.  The  story  of  a  man  who,  as  he 
journeyed. — As  he  journeyed  !  was  the  King  careful  to  say  it 
so] 

In  the  way  of  each  of  us,  as  we  go,  the  errand  lies,  then  1 
Does  the  King  order  that  also  1 

In  all  the  crisscross  of  the  world,  if  everybody  found  his  way 
by  that  leading  and  sending,  if  every  man  "  stood  in  his  place," 
would  the  service  be  prepared  1 

Was  there  not  something  about  the  mote  and  the  beam  that 
might  be  true,  in  some  way,  of  that  1  Can  we  begin  to  struggle 
with  everything  that  is  a  hindrance  and  out  of  place,  can  we  set 
every  least  thing,  the  crowd  and  mass  of  least  things,  straight, 
when  we  ourselves  are  not  where  we  were  meant  to  be ;  are  not 
straight  with  the  sun  1  Must  we  "  orient "  our  own  life  first  ? 
not  get  everything  as  we  want  it,  —  oh  no  !  but  everything,  as  it 
comes,  according  to  that  which  is  most  real  and  true  1  Then,  in 
the  door  of  our  tent,  will  the  angels  of  opportunity  appear  1  and 
will  the  pillar  of  the  Lord  stand  before  our  sight,  and  His  "  pres 
ence  go  with  us,  and  give  us  rest"  1 

Is  it  that  the  kingdom  of  heaven  cannot,  after  all,  be  taken 
by  violence ;  but  must  it  come,  first,  in  some  still,  sweet,  sun 
shiny  way  1 

This  was  the  Easter  sermon  that  Something,  —  the  winds  of 
God,  —  preached  tenderly  to  God's  child,  that  springtide  day. 

And  an  errand  which  she  was  straightway  to  do  came  to  her 
to  be  done. 

Philip  Merriweather  walked  round  from  church  to  call  and 
see  her.  Miss  Tredgold  had  told  him  that  she  was  going  away 
with  her. 

"  How  sweet  you  are  !  "  he  exclaimed,  coming  in  among  the 
breath  of  the  flowers,  in  the  warm  light  and  the  gently  stirring 
air. 

France  laughed.  "  It  is  sweet  to  be  sweetly  surrounded," 
she  said. 

"Some  people  surround  themselves,"  said  the  boy.      "So 


CHIMES.  485 

you  're  going  up  to  Fellaiden  ?    There  '11  be  sweetness  there, 
again  ! " 

"Yes.  The  springtime  is  everywhere,  now,  Phil.  They  say 
the  early  weather  has  really  come  for  good.  And  how  lovely  it 
will  be,  among  the  brooks  and  the  young  grass,  and  the  moun 
tain-tops  turning  soft  again  !  " 

A  longing  look  came  into  the  face  of  the  boy  of  the  moun 
tains.  "Think  of  old  Thumble,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know 
how  he  does  look  in  the  springtime,  Miss  France  !  With 
just  that  little  gray  cloud  of  the  live-looking  trees,  before  they 
actually  bud  out,  feathering  up  along  his  sides !  and  how  the 
water  sings  away  underneath  !  It 's  like  the  Chant ;  and  then, 
too,  —  oh,  I  did  n't  half  know  what,  or  who  was  there,  when  I 
was  !  "  he  broke  off,  with  a  splendid  ambiguity  that  was  uncon 
sciously  quite  worthy  of  his  Fellaiden  days.  But  France  did 
not  take  that  up. 

"  Men  of  heart,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Yes,  there  are  those 
there,  too." 

"  There  is  one  fool  less  there,  now,  at  any  rate,"  said  Phil, 
lashing  himself. 

"  Perhaps,  if  any  little  foolishness  has  seen  its  folly,  there  is 
one  less  in  the  world,"  said  France.  "  And  one  more  of  the 
others  possible  to  be." 

"  Don't  set  me  up.  Keep  on  setting  me  down  ;  it 's  better 
for  me,"  said  Phil.  "  Think  of  how  I  undertook  to  bleat  up  in 
that  man's  face,  and  thought  I  was  .roaring ;  and  yet,  I  don't 
know  much  better  about  it  all,  now.  I  just  know  that  I  don't 
know." 

He  took  up  the  little  Bible,  probably  quite  mechanically,  that 
lay  there  by  his  hand. 

"  We  just  know  Who  does  know,"  said  France,  full,  without 
thinking  about  being  so,  of  the  message  that  had  been  breathed 
into  her. 

"You're  further  than  I  am,"  said  the  boy.  "How  do  we 
know  that  ?  That 's  the  corner  we  're  driven  into." 

"  Because  there  it  is,"  said  the  girl.     "  In  your  own  hands." 

"All  of  this  I  Whales  and  all]  I'm  not  cavilling  now. 
But  what  parti  how  much  of  it  do  you  feel  sure  of?  Not 


486  ODD,   OR   EVEN  ? 

believe  ;  because  people  believe  lots  that  they  're  not  sure  of.  I 
honestly  want  to  know." 

"  I  feel  sure  of  every  word  the  Person  whose  story  is  in  the 
short  half  of  that  Book  has  said." 

"  You  've  got  to  believe  about  Him,  first,"  said  Philip. 

"  I  believe  every  word  He  says  about  Himself,"  said  France. 

"  But  that 's  the  circle  of  it.  What  if  He  never  was  at  all  ? 
I  'm  not  scoffing." 

"  I  know  you  're  not." 

"  But  they  say,  you  know,  that  it  might  have  been  all 
imagined,  as  the  best  sort  of  thing  to  be  1 "  The  question  of  his 
tone  was  a  great  deal  more  in  earnest  than  the  assertion  of  his 
words. 

"  It  would  have  taken,"  France  answered  slowly,  as  if  some 
thing  she  was  bound  to  say,  "  a  Jesus  Christ  to  invent  a  Jesus 
Christ.  So,  by  that  story  being  there,  He  is  proved  to  be 
somewhere,  is  n't  He  ? " 

"But  then,  — suppose,  —  He  might  have  been  mistaken,  or 
misreported,  in  some  things?  Those  were  queer,  ignorant 
times,  —  the  times  of  that  story." 

"  These  are  queer,  ignorant  times,"  saidt  France,  "  only  with 
bigger  things  to  be  ignorant  about.  We  want  just  what  they 
wanted  then,  to  understand  with.  And  the  understanding  was 
all  He  said  anything  about.  And  Phil,  God  would  n't  have  let 
a  lie  or  a  mistake  about  the  way  of  that  understanding  live  so 
long  —  as  the  very  best  thing  —  in  the  world.  You  've  got  to 
give  it  all  up,  if  you  give  up  this.  Besides,  when  the  daylight 
comes,  you  don't  have  to  argue  about  it,  by  the  clock  and  by 
dead-reckoning.  You  see  it." 

"  I  see  you  see.  So  perhaps  I  shall,  as  we  both  have  human 
eyes." 

"  That '«  a  good  deal  to  see,"  said  France,  smiling.  "  I  .sup 
pose  that  is  what  has  really  come  down  all  the  way  from  the 
Apostles." 

"Miss  France,  I  must  go  off,  now.  No,  I  sha'n't  stay  to 
lunch,  to-day.  I  only  came  in  for  a  minute,  to  say  good-by, 
and  I  want  you  to  give  a  message  for  me  up  in  Fellaiden." 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  France. 


CHIMES.  487 

"  I  want  you  to  beg  pardon,  for  me,  of  Mr.  Kingsworth,"  said 
Phil  Merriweather,  manly -fashion.  "And  tell  him  a  little  of 
the  fool  is  getting  shaken  out  of  me." 

France  sat  up  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  You  are  not  Flip 
any  longer,"  she  said. 

"  You  can't  make  any  very  grand  kind  of  Old  Testament  re- 
christening  for  me,"  said  Phil,  laughing.  "  '  Philip '  is  nothing 
but  '  a  lover  of  horses,'  after  all." 

"  A  lover  of  things  strong  and  noble,  that  help  us  bear  our 
burdens  and  take  us  where  we  could  n't  go  of  ourselves,"  said 
France.  "  Philip  is  all  that,  then." 

"If  I  ever  do  drive  a  full  team,"  said  Phil, — "but  I  hate 
making  speeches !  "  And  without  any  further  speech  at  all,  only 
•with  a  great  grasp  of  her  hand,  he  went  away. 

As  he  went  out  he  met  the  two  young  girls,  Hortense  and 
Cornelia.  "Is  France  in  the  evening-room]"  they  asked,  and 
hurried  in  to  tell  their  sister  all  about  the  Easter  flowers, —  and 
perhaps,  too,  not  a  little  about  the  Easter  bonnets. 

They  were  a  good  deal  with  France  in  these  days ;  so  Philip 
Merriweather  had  come  to  know  them  more  of  late,  in  ways 
that  I  have  not  had  space  to  tell  you  of;  curiously  happening, 
since  they  were  really  so  much  nearer  his  age  and  tone,  one 
•would  say,  than  she. 

"  How  like  Hortense  is  growing  to  Miss  France, —  or  after 
her  ! "  Phil  thought  as  he  went  down  stairs.  "  We  need  n't  any 
of  us  think  to  catch  up  with  her;  we  have. n't  started  soon 
enough ! " 


488  ODD,   OB  EVEN? 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

OUTSIDE,    WITH  A  DARK  LANTERN. 

FRANCE  had  written  back  to  Israel :  — 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,  dear  Mr.  Israel,  for  writing  me 
your  news  yourself.  You  say  about  it  just  what  I  should  have 
expected.  I  should  have  known  you  would  not  change  your 
mind,  for  that  was  made  up  on  grounds  and  reasons  quite  differ 
ent  from  what  money  has  to  do  with.  But  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  also  got  the  money ! 

"  I  have  not  been  quite  well  lately.  After  Fellaiden,  the  city 
has  not  been  very  good  for  me, —  or  to  me,  some  way.  Miss 
Ammah  is  coming  up  to  her  house,  and  they  are  going  to  let 
me  come  with  her,  if  she  gets  leave  from  your  mother.  For 
I  suppose  we  should  have  to  trouble  her  a  little.  They  are 
sending  me  for  Fellaiden  air ;  but  what  I  am  coming  for  is  to  see 
Fellaiden  friends,  and  to  be  glad  with  them. 

"  I  am  very  sincerely  yours, 

"FRANCES  EVERIDGE." 

That  was  her  defence, —  that  bold  front  of  purpose,  shunning 
nothing.  She  was  coming  because  she  wanted  to  come  back 
among  her  friends,  and  be  part  with  them  in  the  new  things ; 
not  content  to  belong  only  to  the  past,  the  old, —  though  it  was 
the  past  and  the  old  of  only  last  year. 

Perhaps  it  was  just  a  little  puzzling  to  Israel,  whether  he 
should  comfort  or  torment  himself  with  these  words.  The 
words  were  sweetly  gracious ;  but  the  graciousness  of  saying 
them1}  Would  he  not  rather  that  it  should  have  been  less 
frankly  possible  ?  » 

If  he,  in  his  turn,  could  have  understood  just  how  strong  a 


OUTSIDE,   WITH  A   DARK  LANTERN.  489 

motive  for  hiding  herself  had  forced  her  to  putting  the  frank 
ness  in ! 

Miss  Amman  had  gone  straight  home  on  the  Friday, —  not 
waiting  for  the  Saturday's  peradventure  of  decision, —  and  writ 
ten  to  Mother  Heybrook,  asking  if  she  might  bring  France 
Everidge  with  her,  if  she  could  get  her1?  So  France  knew  that 
the  Monday  would  bring  the  reply.  But  if  anybody  had  ever 
waited  to  be  happy  until  made  sure  that  Mother  Heybrook 
would  not  forbid  it,  it  would  have  been  a  holding  of  breath  for 
fear  of  the  free  air  giving  out. 

Wednesday  was  the  sweetest  of  April  days, —  the  sweetest,  at 
any  rate,  there  had  been  yet  this  year.  Lyman  met  them  at 
Creddle's  Mills,  with  the  light  open  wagon.  Two  chair-backs, 
—  comfortable  old  curves, —  sawed  from  the  lower  frames  and 
set  in  staples,  with  thick  rugs  thrown  over  them,  had  been 
added  to  the  back  seat ;  these  made  the  vehicle  perfect.  Farmer- 
folk  do  not  wait  to  get  new  equipages,  any  more  than  to  build 
new  houses ;  they  add  and  incorporate  new  comforts  with  the 
old,  in  homely,  clever  ways.  All  the  open  wagon  had  ever 
wanted  it  had  now ;  it  was  a  luxurious  turnout. 

"  Beautif '1  weather  —  overhead  !  "  somebody  called  to  Lyman 
in  highway  greeting,  as  they  came  out  from  the  town  streets  of 
the  Mills,  and  took  the  long,  straight  north  road  under  the  hill- 
foot. 

"  Yes,  only  there  ain't  many  of  us  travellin'  that  way,  ex 
actly  !  "  responded  Lyman,  as  his  wheels  ground  heavily  out  of 
the  rut,  and  turned  great  rolls  of  wet  brown  earth  aside  from 
them.  There  had  been  heavy  spring  rains  up  here,  he  told 
them. 

But  it  was  all  overhead  to  France.  She  was  travelling  just 
that  way.  The  blue  sky,  and  the  unnamable  deliciousness  of 
the  air,  and  the  uprising  music  of  running  waters, —  she  was 
aloft  among  them,  out  of  all  the  heavy  ruts,  going  as  a  bird 
goes,  on  its  wings,  not  feet. 

And  so  they  came,  up  the  ascents,  and  along  the  windings, 
dipping  down  into  Clark's  Hollow,  skirting  the  Long  Meadows, 
and  climbing  the  slow  stretch  of  Three-Mile  Hill. 

And  when  they  drove  up  over  the  soft  grass  sward  of  the  wide 


490  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

door-place,  there  stood  Rael  Heybrook  and  his  mother  in  the 
house-porch. 

So  easy  and  quick  it  had  been  to  get  here  !  so  same  it  all  was, 
waiting.  Was  it?  two  pairs  of  eyes  asked  the  swift  question  of 
each  other,  as  Rael  took  France's  hands  to  help  her  down  over 
the  wagon-side.  Asked  it  under  cover.  Neither  was  conscious 
that  they  had  asked,  or  quite  sure  of  what  they  had  found. 

Israel  saw  that  France  was  pale.  "  You  are  tired  with  your 
journey  1 "  he  said ;  and  he  said  it  most  kindly. 

"A  little,"  she  answered,  and  the  weariness  was  reason 
enough  ;  but  under  the  weariness  was  the  question,  "  Why* 
could  n't  he  have  driven  over  for  us,  if  he  cared  to, —  since  he 
was  waiting  here  ? "  And  there  was  "  a  little  "  gentle  sadness 
in  the  tv^o  words. 

She  had  not  come  here  to  be  sad,  though ;  the  next  instant 
she  was  telling  Mother  Heybrook  how  nice  she  looked.  "  In 
her  new  dress,"  she  said. 

"  Bless  you,  child,  't  is  n't  new  !  It 's  only  rested.  I  pinned  it 
up  and  laid  it  by  last  fall.  It  was  n't  wore,  but  it  was  kind  o' 
tired.  Gowns  do  get  tired  ;  but  then,  after  a  spell,  they  shake 
out  again,  's  fresh  's  folks." 

"You  shake  out  fresh,  Mrs.  Heybrook !  Some  folks  stay  in 
strings,  and  their  gowns  too.  It 's  the  live  bird  that  makes  the 
live  feathers,"  said  Mise  Ammah,  who  always  talked,  the  first 
day  or  so  at  Fellaiden,  as  if  the  mountain  air  had  got  a  little 
bit  into  her  head.  And  so  the  women  went  into  the  house,  and 
the  two  young  men  carried  the  boxes  up  stairs,  and  then  went 
off  with  the  horse  and  wagon  into  the  sheds. 

It  scarcely  seemed  as  if  they  were  beginning  just  where  they 
left  off,  —  even  where  those  letters  had  left  off.  France  sup 
posed  some  things  did  not  freshen  up  with  laying  by.  Other 
things  had  been  fresh  and  alive,  meanwhile;  the  current  had 
run  into  them.  She  had  no  doubt  that  at  the  Parsonage  all 
was  quick  and  circulating.  Yesterday  and  to-day  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  each  other.  Had  she  to  make  new  yester 
days  again  ] 

She  was  tired, —  a  good  deal  tired.  She  went  to  bed  early ; 
perhaps  that  there  might  the  sooner  be  a  yesterday. 


OUTSIDE,   WITH   A   DARK   LANTERN.  491 

"  It  is  so  good  —  so  like  you  —  to  come  up  here  because  you 
were  glad  for  us,  Miss  France  !  " 

The  voice  came  from  behind  her.  She  was  out  on  that  old 
west  piazza,  in  the  brave  morning  air.  She  turned  round,  and 
gave  her  hand  to  Israel. 

"  I  never  can  say  things  all  at  once,"  he  went  on.  "  And 
you  were  tired  last  night.  But  you  must  not  think  I  had  for 
gotten  your  good  words." 

"  They  were  very  poor  words.  They  did  not  say  much,  I 
think.  How  full  the  brook  must  be,  Mr.  Rael !  How  plainly 
you  can  hear  it  rushing  over  the  rocks  down  there  !  Oh,  how 
lovely  everything  is  at  Fellaiden  !  " 

She  was  up  on  wing  again.     The  morning  was  in  her  heart. 

Rael  had  resolved  within  himself  that  he  would  not  be  a 
churl,  a  coward.  Because  this  girl  was  set  so  far  away  from 
him  that  it  might  easily  have  been  that  they  two  should  never 
have  drifted  toward  each  other  any  more,  because  he  had 
been,  within  himself,  "a  fool,"  had  let  that  get  hold  of  him 
which  could  never  be  helped  now,  though  nobody  but  himself 
was  to  blame  for  it,  he  was  not  going  to  thrust  off  or  turn  away 
from  what  had  been  freely  given  him,  and  deserved  —  yes,  the 
least  from  her  deserved  —  all  that  he  could  give  in  return. 

Only,  it  should  never  offend  her.  He  could  bear  things.  He 
was  a  man. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  had  told  him  that  a  man  might  hope 
anything  that  he  was  capable  of  hoping.  Well,  he  would  hope 
it,  then  ;  but  not  from  her,  now.  In  some  heaven  it  might 
come  true,  perhaps,  in  heavenly  fashion.  But  all  the  fashions 
of  this  world  stood  between.  He  would  only  not  reject  and 
overthrow  what  had  begun  for  him,  because  it  might  not  reach 
the  utmost  in  a  present  fulfilment.  He  would  be  that  far 
capable  of  it,  that  far  worthy  that  it  had  begun. 

Rael  even  said  to  himself  sometimes  —  there  had  been  times 
and  times  in  the  few  days  since  the  coming  of  her  letter  —  that 
it  might  be  Bernard  Kingsworth,  in  the  gradual  unfolding  of 
his  character  to  her  understanding,  that  she  was,  half  uncon 
sciously,  turning  back  for.  He  remembered  that  "  measure  " 
in  which,  at  their  very  first  meeting  here,  he  had  discerned 


492  ODD,   OB   EVEN? 

them  related.  "  The  things  that  are,  will  come  true,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  can  bear  it." 

Here  were  two  that  could  bear,  two  that  stood  ready  for  the 
everlasting  right  to  befall,  though  their  heaven  should  roll  to 
gether  as  a  scroll. 

Why,  as  Miss  Ammah  had  said,  should  one  woman  have  the 
love  of  two  such  men  ] 

Yet  could  either  of  them  be  hurt  by  it  1 

"  Tell  me  about  all  these  things,"  said  France  to  Israel.  "  I 
am  behind  with  the  story,  and  I  want  to  come  into  it  again." 
She  sat  down  on  the  long  red  rocker.  Israel  drew  nearer,  but  he 
did  not  sit  down  ;  he  stood  and  leaned  against  the  piazza-rail  be 
fore  her,  and  he  told  her  all  about  the  things  that  had  happened. 

"  Why,  Sarell  is  a  grand  woman  !  "  she  said.  "  I  would  like 
to  have  been  Sarell  —  to  do  a  thing  like  that !  " 

But  I  am  afraid  my  France,  much  as  I  like  and  believe  in 
her,  could  not  have  done  just  what  Sarell  had  done.  Why 
should  I  say  "afraid,"  though?  For  her,  there  would  have 
been  something  yet  truer  and  higher ;  something  she  could  not 
have  done  violence  to  and  been  true  or  high.  Sarell  had 
done  no  violence  :  she  had  simply  known  what  might  be  and 
what  might  not ;  she  had  accepted  her  own  humble  lot  and 
way,  and  had  done  her  good  work  "  as  she  journeyed." 

"  What  is  she  to  do  now  1 "  asked  France. 

"  We  have  helped  Hollis  about  hiring  the  East  Hollow  Farm  ; 
the  widow  and  her  mother  have  been  moved  away,  already. 
Sarell  is  mistress  there ;  and  Hollis  will  do  well." 

"  What  does  Sarell  say  1 " 

"  She  asks,  as  you  did,  what  she  is  to  do  next.  Life  has  be 
come  so  easy  to  her,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  she  scarcely  knows 
how  to  take  it.  She  likes  books,  you  know.  Hollis  brings  her 
one,  every  week  or  two,  from  the  library  at  Reade,  and  she  gets 
ours  from  the  Centre.  She  used  to  keep  one  by  to  look  at 
weekdays  and  read  Sundays,  she  said.  One  of  those  first  days 
when  the  sugaring  was  done,  and  before  any  busy  spring  work 
began,  I  was  over  there  ;  and  Hollis  had  just  come  in  with  the 
'  Lass  o'  Lowrie's.'  She  looked  at  it,  and  thanked  him,  said 
she  was  real  glad  to  get  it,  and  laid  it  down  without  opening  it. 


OUTSIDE,   WITH  A   DARK   LANTERN.  493 

'  I  wonder  what  I  'd  best  turn  to,  now,'  she  says,  looking  round 
for  a  '  chore.'  '  Why,  that,'  said  Hollis.  '  Set  right  down  an' 
read  it.'  '  That  ? '  says  Sarell.  '  Right  away,  fust  minute  *? 
Why,  I  donuo  how  ! '  That  's  the  way  her  life  looks  to  her,  the 
'  hindrances  all  dropped  out.'  '  Don't  seem 's  ef  I  c'd  git  along 
'thout  a  hindrance,"  she  says." 

"  That 's  a  good  story  !  That 's  just  like  Sarell !  "  and  Rael 
and  France  both  laughed  out  gayly.  It  was  such  a  gay,  sweet 
thing  to  be  merry  together  ! 

"  And  Lyman  1 "  asked  France. 

"  Lyman  is  studying  on  with  Mr.  Kiugsworth.  He  has  been 
with  him  almost  all  winter." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Ammah  told  me.     That 's  good." 

"  He  will  keep  on,  as  well  as  the  farm-work  will  let  him  — 
for  Lyme  won't  drop  the  plough  and  hoe-handles  so  long  as  he 
lives  at  home  —  until  next  year  ;  then  Mr.  Kingsworth  thinks  he 
can  stand  a  college  examination.  I  must  tell  you  that  Mr. 
Kingsworth  has  got  the  better  of  me  :  he  has  put  it  to  me  that 
it  won't  be  '  generous  '  for  me  not  to  let  him  do  this  that  he 
has  begun  for  Lyman.  And  Lyman  is  to  be  his  student  all  the 
•way  through.  I  was  too  proud  for  it,  at  first ;  but  he  ended 
by  making  me  feel  too  proud  to  be  mean.  It 's  easier  now, 
though,  that  I  could  do  it  myself." 

"  You  are  a  great  deal  too  proud,  Mr.  Israel." 

"  I  must  be  too  proud  to  let  that  boy  drive  the  plough  off 
alone,  while  I  stand  pleasuring  here,"  said  Rael  suddenly. 

He  was  in  his  dark  gray  woollen  shirt  and  working  trousers, 
trim  and  neat,  — Rael  was  always  that,  —  but  coarse  and  plain, 
ready  for  his  ploughing  ;  he  went  off  with  a  smile,  and  France 
followed  him  with  one. 

All  day,  one  word  from  each  remained  with  either.  France 
had  told  him  he  was  "  too  proud  "  ;  he  had  been  "  pleasuring  " 
while  he  talked  with  her. 

Wrell,  —  the  evening  and  the  morning  had  been  the  first  day. 


Mr.  Kingsworth  drove  over  with  his  sister,  Leonora. 

It  was  an  easy  way  of  coming  again,  the  first  time.     These 


494  ODD,   OB   EVEN? 

two  young  women  ought  to  know  each  other ;  and  it  was  good 
that  the  visit  could  have  a  point  like  that. 

Now,  each  of  these  two  girls  had  something  to  investigate  as 
to  the  other.  Bernard  had  never  said  a  word  to  his  sister  of 
the  last  summer  as  a  personal  experience,  but  he  had  said  a 
great  deal  of  this  France  Everidge.  Perhaps  he  had  been 
teaching  himself  to  be  able  to  talk  about  her  freely.  However, 
Leonora  had  certainly  conceived  a  strong  desire  to  see  this 
France,  and  to  see  her  with  her  brother.  On  the  other  part, 
we  know  very  well  what  the  meeting  was  to  France. 

Two  women,  set  to  gauge  and  comprehend  each  other,  are 
apt  to  do  one  of  two  things  ;  possibly,  between  them,  each  of  two 
things :  either  to  comprehend  and  measure  straight  through 
and  through,  and  thenceforward  to  need  nothing  that  words 
can  tell,  —  or  to  strike  a  false  trail,  and  comprehend  with  equal 
facility  something  that  it  will  take  a  great  deal  of  logic,  of 
word  or  of  event,  to  substitute  with  simple  truth. 

In  this  case,  there  occurred  the  double  illustration  of  my 
theory. 

Leonora  Kingsworth  saw,  like  a  seeress,  that  Miss  Everidge 
was  —  or  must  have  been,  a  very  little  while  ago  —  precisely  the 
person  to  charm  and  win  Bernard,  curate  of  souls,  as  a  fair,  rich, 
noble  upland,  never  brought  under  plough,  or  sown  with  seed  of 
purpose,  but  sending  up  its  life  in  every  growth  that  springs 
spontaneous  where  grandest  harvest  is  possible,  wins  the  long 
ing  of  eye  and  hand  from  the  man  to  whose  love  and  wisdom 
for  earth-culture  its  possibility  stands  for  pi-esent  fact.  She 
saw  clearly  and  truly  that  France  had  been  a  study  and 
a  revelation  —  a  quickly  absorbing  delight  and  hope,  very 
likely  well-nigh  a  life-dream  and  passion  —  to  her  brother. 
But  she  did  not  believe  her  to  have  been  so  beside  him  that 
she  could  have  dwelt  with  him  on  the  heights.  Therefore,  she 
did  not  believe  that  she  would,  or  could,  concern  his  whole, 
livelong  life.  Whether  she  saw  already  something  else  that 
should  be,  I  am  not  so  sure  ;  but  she  had  known  Rael  long 
enough,  now,  not  to  have  that  first  apparent  incongruity  to  get 
over ;  and  if  she  did  catch  a  glimpse,  it  would  not  have  been  a 
hard  thing  for  her  to  receive  the  idea  into  her  mind. 


OUTSIDE,   WITH   A   DARK  LANTEEN.  495 

France  Everidge,  with  all  her  brightness,  used  it  as  a  dark 
lantern,  and  threw  all  the  light  only  on  one  side. 

Miss  Kingsworth  was  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  anybody 
she  had  ever  seen.  And  Rael  Heybrook  so  discerned  and  loved 
all  beauty  !  His  eyes  were  upon  her  admiringly ;  the  eyes  of 
everybody  had  to  be,  where  she  was.  It  would  be  as  possible 
not  to  look  into  those  lovely  colors  of  the  sunset,  as  they  sat 
there  before  the  play  and  glory  of  them,  as  not  to  watch 
the  exquisite  lights  and  expressions  upon  that  exquisite  face. 
And  the  illumination  came  as  truly  from  a  sun-shining  that 
was  below  the  earth-surface. 

Miss  Kingsworth  had  grown  to  be  his  friend  in  a  score  of 
ways  that  she,  France,  had  not  had  time  or  opening  for.  She 
turned  to  him  now,  with  half  a  dozen  questions  that  he  could 
answer  best.  Yes ;  they  were  great  friends  and  co-workers. 
France  felt  small,  inadequate,  overwhelmed. 

There  was  something  in  Leonora's  manner  that  bespoke  it  to 
have  been  so  from  the  first.  It  had  not  taken  time  for  her  to 
find  out  Israel,  —  to  comprehend  how  this  young  farmer-gentle 
man  could  be.  She,  herself,  had  used  up  a  whole  summer-time 
in  coming  to  her  full  conclusion.  Leonora  Kiugsworth  had 
begun  where  she  left  off,  and  had  had  all  this  beautiful,  long 
winter.  Of  course,  this  had  long  outgrown  the  other. 

Israel  was  large  and  loyal.  He  had  withdrawn  nothing  from 
herself;  nothing  that  she  had  not  tacitly  bidden  him  withdraw. 
But  she  had  had  the  gift  held  out  to  her,  and  she  had  let  it 
pass  by.  She  was  only,  very  quietly,  secondarily  now,  his 
friend.  That  word  of  the  other  morning  sounded  light  and 
partial  to-day,  —  as  of  small,  different  regard,  —  his  "  pleasur 
ing  "  in  talk  with  her.  It  had  been  said  too  easily.  It  reached 
for  too  little.  With  this  other  girl,  the  talk  reached  around 
and  into  all  that  was  making  up  their  life. 

She  had  to  sit  and  hear  it,  and  be  pleased  and  interested 
about  it.  She  had  to  be  appealed  to,  and  to  give  information. 
Of  course,  she  knew  all  about  the  "Children's  Country  Holiday," 
—  that  lovely  charity  of  her  Boston  people.  And  France  had 
to  be  glad  that  she  just  did  know  Mr.  Devereux  Hartie  and  Mrs. 
Kellis  "\Vaite,  and  had  been  on  a  Correspondence  Committee  for 
a  little  while  in  the  good  work. 


496  ODD,   OR   EVEN? 

They  were  going  to  set  up  a  holiday  house  here  in  Fellaiden, 

—  an  old,  relinquished  parsonage,  that  stood  on  the  brink  of  that 
beautiful  North  Basin,  with  sweet  pastures  running  down  be 
hind  toward  the  east.    "  They  are  full  of  wild  fruit  all  summer," 
Leonora  said,  —  she  had  found  out  all  about  the  summer  too, 

—  "and  we  are  going  to  make  it  self-supporting  on  the  strength 
of  it.     Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Pettrell,  Miss  Everidge  1 " 

"The  one  whom  Lyman  used  to  call  the  Stormy  Petrel1?" 
asked  France,  smiling,  and  giving  her  fox  a  pinch  under  her 
mantle.  "  Who  used  to  come  here  with  '  a  basket  of  berries 
and  a  grievance,'  every  few  days  1 " 

"  I  believe  she  has  been  simply  always  driven  before  a  storm, 
Miss  Everidge  ;  I  don't  think  she  was  the  making  of  it,  any  more 
than  the  Mother  Carey's  chicken.  Things — and  people  — 
have  dealt  hardly  with  her.  Some  lives  do  seem  to  run  in 
such  a  vein.  But  you  ought  to  see  her  with  a  little  child  !  — 
She  lost  three  in  one  week,  when  she  wasyoung." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  France  pitifully.     And  the  fox  lay  quiet,  while  . 
her  heart  beat  in  real,  ready  sympathy  for  this  other,  —  this 
old  woman,  and  her  grievous  wound  of  long  ago.     "And  you 
are  going  to  put  her  —  " 

"  At  the  head  of  Huckleberry  House,"  said  Leonora.  "  That 
is  what  we  have  named  it.  And  the  children  are  to  earn  — 
and  have  —  their  holiday  in  the  fruit-picking.  Mrs.  Pettrell 
is  great  at  '  sealing  up.'  She  will  can  cartloads  in  the  course 
of  the  season,  one  thing  after  another,  and  make  jams  and 
cordials.  Bernard  has  provided  a  market  for  the  things.  — 
Mr.  Rael,  we  had  better  go  over  and  look  at  that  old  sugar- 
house,  I  think,  and  see  about  putting  up  a  new  boiler  in  it." 

This  was  the  other  end  of  the  city  labor,  the  beautiful 
country  end,  —  the  end  she  might  — .  Yes,  though  she  would 
not  finish  the  sentence,  there  had  been  two  ways  in  which 
she  might  have  been  set  at  the  heart  of  it. 

But  she  had  let  it  go.  She  was  standing  outside ;  she  was 
only  here,  looking  on,  for  a  few  days;  it  was  all  over,  now. 


ROSE-GLORIES.  497 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

ROSE-GLORIES. 

Miss  AMMAH'S  house  was  dressed  like  a  child  whose  things 
have  all  been  laid  out  beforehand. 

The  pretty  mattings  —  the  bright  blue  and  white  in  the 
southwest  room,  and  the  red  in  the  north,  with  the  plain, 
smooth,  finewhite  in  the  parlors,  and  the  tile-painted  oil-cloth 
in  the  plant-gallery  between  —  were  all  down ;  the  simple  cur 
tains,  with  their  light  rods  and  rings,  prepared  and  sent  up 
from  Boston,  were  all  hung ;  furniture,  books,  and  a  few  pic 
tures  were  quickly  put  into  their  places ;  the  china  was 
unpacked  and  ranged  in  the  quaintest,  most  charming  corner- 
cupboards  and  upon  the  Eastlake  dresser-shelves,  built  here  be 
fore  Sir  Charles  Eastlake  —  or  his  shelves,  at  any  rate  —  were 
heard  of  on  this  side  the  water ;  and  the  high-post  bedsteads, 
with  new  testers  and  valances,  their  twisted  pillars  and  brass 
top-knobs  glittering  with  dark  polish  and  bright  burnish,  were 
made  up  to  sleep  in. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  a  tea-table  was  set  in  the  sashed  gal 
lery,  and  Miss  Ammah  and  France  were  established  to  stay, 
expecting  the  Heybrooks  and  the  Kingsworths  over  to  the 
house-warming.  Sarell  and  Hollis,  with  a  young  sister  of  Mr. 
Bassett's  who  was  to  be  house-maiden,  were  in  the  pleasant 
kitchen.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bassett  were  invited  guests ;  but  Sarell 
had  set  a  second  table  here.  "  There  must  alwers  be  two  ends 
to  a  house,"  she  said.  "  We  '11  warm  this  end,  and  I  '11  wait  on 
table."  To  all  remonstrance  she  simply  remarked  that  "  she  'd 
alwers  ben  one  o'  them  th't  hed  a  place  f'r  everything,  an'  every 
thing  in  its  place  ;  an'  she  found  it  answered." 

It  was  impossible  to  let  one's  self  be  unhappy  at  such  a  time, 
even  if  the  days  that  had  intervened  had  given  nothing  in  the 

32 


498  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

balance  against  that  wilful  outweighing  of  herself  that  France 
had  achieved.  Also,  though  we  may  say,  "  It  is  all  over ! " 
it  never  is,  so  long  as  anything  remains  to  be  over  with. 

There  were  brackets  against  the  window-frames  in  the  gal 
lery,  where  pots  of  plants  were  to  be ;  meanwhile,  to-night, 
bowls  heaped  and  hung  over  with  pinkest  arbutus-blooms  and 
trailing  mitchella  and  young-sprouted  feathers  of  fern  filled 
the  rings ;  and  a  tall  jar  in  one  corner  was  gay  with  different 
tints  of  early  tree-buds  and  leafage,  and  the  golden  disks  of 
bold,  impatient  little  dandelions.  On  the  table  were  glass 
troughs  among  the  dishes,  with  carnations  and  heliotropes  from 
the  small  parsonage  greenhouse. 

France  had  on  a  dress  of  soft  white  woollen,  with  bands  of 
green  silk  trimming,  and  hair  and  breast  knots  of  rosy  arbutus 
and  glossy  wintergreen  leaves  and  light-drooping  mitchella. 
Leonora  Kings  worth  was  in  silk  of  sunny  brown,  her  favorite 
color,  with  creamy  tea-rosebuds  for  adornment.  Here,  in  the 
country,  one  does  not,  happily,  tire  of  tea-rosebuds. 

When  these  two  came  in  together  from  the  taking  off  of 
Leonora's  hat  and  wraps  and  a  bright  little  visit  and  "  kank  " 
with  Sarell  in  the  kitchen,  the  metamorphosis  of  the  old  Gilley 
house  was  complete  in  the  highest  point,  the  human. 

And  there  is  nothing  like  a  tea-table,  with  bright,  pleased, 
friendly  people  round  it,  for  bringing  the  human  to  its  brightest, 
if  not  highest  climax.  Only,  I  have  indulged  in  details  already 
to  the  extreme  prescribed  limit  of  the  Wakefield  family-picture. 
I  must  beware  of  a  canvas  that  can't  be  got  out  of  the  place 
where  it  has  been  painted. 

Tea  had  been  made  early,  and  the  guests  were  to  go  early. 
Farmer  and  Mother  Heybrook  must  be  home  when  the  cows 
were  (Lynian  privately  told  Israel  never  to  mind  the  milking 
to-night,  he  felt  just  up  to  the  whole  of  it) ;  Mr.  Kingsworth 
had  a  meeting  at  his  house  later  in  the  evening  ;  and  all  knew 
that  Miss  Tredgold,  though  heart-festive,  was  tired,  and  that 
France,  who  had  zealously  helped  her,  was  yet  delicate. 

The  house  had  been  inspected,  as  a  finished  whole,  from  end 
to  end  and  from  top  to  bottom ;  and  just  the  like  of  it,  had 
been  declared,  was  never  before  seen  in  Fellaiden. 


ROSE-GLORIES.  499 

"  But  it 's  what  may  be.  I  had  a  conscience  about  that,"  said 
Miss  Ammah  eagerly ;  "  and  I  hope  nobody,  if  they  take  a 
fancy,  will  be  bashful  about  'copying.'  Unbleached  cotton, 
gray  twilled  crash,  strainer  muslin,  turkey-red,  plain  wooden 
poles,  and  hollow  brass  rings  at  twenty-five  cents  a  dozen,  — 
anybody  can  have  these.  It 's  the  beauty  of  the  new  fashions. 
If  only  plain  people  will  have  plain  sense  enough  to  hold  on  to 
them  when  the  extravagant  ones  have  grown  tired  of  them  for 
commonness,  or  have  exaggerated  them  into  extravagances. 
Come  back,  Rael,  after  you  have  seen  Mr.  Kings  worth  and 
Miss  Leonora  off.  I  want  a  home  word  with  you  and  France 
to-night." 

Miss  Ammah  went  off  to  Sarell  in  the  kitchen.  France 
went  out  to  the  west  doorway,  where  the  maples,  that  had  been 
scarlet  and  gold  the  first  time  she  stood  there,  were  tender  with 
their  opening  green  folds,  and  the  low  sun  was  level  through 
them  with  a  soft  glory. 

Rael  walked  down  the  steep  hillside-drive  beside  the  minis 
ter's  chaise.  Leonora  leaned  from  it,  speaking  earnestly,  yet 
smilingly,  with  him.  France  could  not  know  that,  although  he 
walked  on  her  side,  and  his  hand  was  on  the  frame  of  the 
dasher,  as  if  to  keep  them  with  him  some  lingering  instants 
more,  it  was  really  the  minister  who  had  detained  and  led  him 
on  with  last,  just  recollected  words. 

He  went  on  as  far  as  the  roadway.  Then,  as  the  little  Mor 
gan  turned  off  and  into  a  brisk  trot,  he  slowly  faced  about,  and, 
with  bent,  thoughtful  head,  retraced  his  steps. 

France,  sitting  there  alone,  could  not  know  that  he  was  ques 
tioning  with  himself  whether  he  dared  come  back  to  her  alone ; 
whether  this  friendliness,  so  sweet,  so  hard,  could  rightly  and 
manfully  go  on  with  him ;  whether  he  were  strong  enough, 
after  all,  to  bear  it. 

He  knew  something  of  what  Miss  Ammah's  home  word  was 
likely  to  touch  upon,  to-night.  He  had  had  a  hint  of  a  possible 
purpose  that  would  be  —  it  might  be,  if  he  could  believe  that 
possible  —  a  summer  blessedness,  —  that  must  be  either  that  or 
a  long  summer  torture,  to  him  now.  "  A  home  word  with  him 
and  France."  That  was  what  had  set  the  keynote  to  his 
thoughts.  Had  it,  perhaps,  to  do  with  hers  also? 


500  ODD,   OB  EVEN? 

Rael  stopped  when  he  came  up  to  France  upon  the  doorstone. 
Something  in  the  girl's  look,  something  her  look  recovered  itself 
swiftly  from,  struck  him.  She  rose  to  her  feet  as  he  spoke 
to  her. 

Miss  Amman  was  still  away  in  the  kitchen.  Her  voice  and 
Sarell's  were  high  and  blithe  in  conversation. 

"  You  are  tired  with  it  all,  Miss  France  1 " 

"  No  —  yes  —  perhaps  so,"  she  answered  a  little  hurriedly. 
"  The  sunset  will  rest  me.  It 's  going  to  be  beautiful  to-night, 
Mr.  Rael."  She  pointed  out  along  the  ridge,  straight  from  the 
doorway,  where,  up  against  the  west,  fanlike  clouds  were  stretch 
ing  and  spreading  in  soft,  radiating  lines  of  tawny  brown.  They 
held  themselves  over,  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand  in  benediction. 

It  was  so  still  and  high  out  there  upon  the  ridge,  and  the 
sunset  scenery  was  gathering  itself  to  be  such  a  lovely  show  ! 

Yes,  just  this  once  more, — as  if  this  once  more  could  tell  him 
something,  or  end  anything. 

"  Do  you  feel  like  walking  out  there  just  a  little  way]" 

For  answer,  France  moved  across  toward  the  low  picket-gate 
that  led  out  under  the  maple-tree,  upon  the  open  ridge.  She 
did  not  know  how  far  she  would  go.  Rael  came  -up  with  her, 
and  they  walked  silently  side  by  side. 

Over  their  heads,  that  wonderful  sky  was  lighting  up.  The 
clouds  were  flaky  now,  the  long  lines  broken  into  softest  scales 
of  vapor,  the  "  mackerel  back  "  that  is  so  incomparable. 

But  France  moved  slowly  on,  her  face  bent  a  trifle  down. 
She  had  a  white  shawl  wrapped  round  her;  and  as  she  held  it 
with  her  folded  arms,  she  seemed  to  hold  herself  apart. 

Unexpectedly,  she  stood  still.  With  a  slight  movement  she 
threw  her  head  erect.  She  did  not  know  how  clearly  attitude 
and  gesture  spoke  something  that  she  meant  to  be  unspoken. 

Rael  stopped  too.  "  What  is  it,  Miss  France  1  Will  you 
turn  back  ]  Are  we  going  too  far  1 " 

They  were  strange  questions  to  her  mood. 

If  she  had  not  spoken  on  the  instant,  she  could  not  have 
said  the  words  she  did.  A  half  breath  of  hesitation,  and  they 
would  have  been  full  of  a  meaning  that  she  would  not  have 
uttered  for  the  world.  But  as  she  had  written  that  last  sen- 


BOSE-GLOKIES.  501 

tence  in  her  letter,  she  uttered  now,  under  cover  of  a  frankness 
too  entire  to  be  suspected,  the  absolute  truth. 

"  I  am  having  a  battle  with  myself.  I  am  trying  to  be  too 
proud  to  be  mean.  I  am  getting  jealous  in  my  friendships, 
Mr.  Rael.  That  girl  is  so  good  and  beautiful,  and  she  is  so 
much  already  among  you  all !  I  have  admired  her  till  I  have 
grown  fierce.  There,  now  you  know  !  "  And  France  laughed, 
a  bitter,  brave  little  laugh  against  herself. 

The  flakes  of  cloud  over  them  were  rolled  into  soft  ball- 
shapes,  and  the  balls  were  turning  rosy.  A  rose-light  was  on 
Israel  Hey  brook's  face. 

Could  she  care  like  that  1  Yet  what  could  he  assume  from 
it  1  How  could  he  answer  her  ] 

With  the  outspokenness,  her  manner  changed.  She  moved 
forward  a  step  or  two,  as  if  some  Rubicon  were  passed,  and  the 
way  could  be  taken  quietly,  as  a  way  quite  simply  understood. 

"  I  was  your  friend  first,  you  see,"  —  the  "you  "  might  mean 
again  "  you  all "  ;  but  that  was  a  slender  shelter,  and  she  did 
not  mark  any  consciousness  by  even  taking  it.  She  spoke  with 
leisure  calm,  —  "  and  I  have  been  proud  to  be.  I  did  not  begin 
as  she  did.  I  suppose  that  is  the  real  comparison  and  jealousy 
of  it.  But  I  want  you  to  know  how  proud  I  have  been  that  I 
knew  you." 

Israel  paused  now,  and  turned  round  to  her.  He  answered 
nothing  to  all  the  last  part  of  her  saying,  but  to  the  first  word 
of  it  directly. 

"  You  are  first,"  he  said  as  calmly  as  she,  but  with  a  great 
strength  in  his  calmness.  "  No  other  friend  will  ever  come  be 
fore  you,  Miss  France." 

"Is  that  true1?"  She  lifted  a  glad  face  full  upon  him. 
"Don't  answer  me.  You  say  it,  and  I  know  it  is." 

"  Yes,  you  know  it  is  true.  It  is  as  true  as  my  own  soul. 
And  then  ? "  He  reached  out  his  hands  to  her  with  a  sudden 
boldness.  All  his  manhood  asserted  itself  before  this  woman 
to  whom  he  had  said,  with  all  the  truth  and  fulness  of  his  soul, 
that  she  was  first. 

"  Then,  Rael,  you  are  first  with  me,  for  always,  as  you  were 
before  I  knew  it,  —  before  I  toould  know  it." 


502  ODD,   OR  EVEN? 

All  those  soft  balls  of  cloud  were  crimson  now,  like  rich- 
hearted  roses.  They  seemed  to  drop  and  drop,  with  a  fine, 
misty  trail  above  them  in  the  air,  like  the  trail  of  rain.  The 
sky  was  full  of  falling  blooms. 

The  tender,  melting  splendor  was  upon  their  faces,  turned 
toward  each  other.  They  lifted  them  upward. 

"  What  a  sky  !  "  cried  France,  all  joy-transfigured  under  it. 

"  It  is  for  us,"  said  Rael.  And  he  put  his  arm  around  her, 
and  drew  her  to  his  strong,  true  heart. 

"  A-world-for-me  !    A-world-for-thee  !  " 

Did  they  hear,  or  did  it  sing  in  their  souls  in  the  stillness, 
—  that  sweet,  clear  whippoorwill's  cry  ] 

The  roses  of  heaven  rained  and  rained,  till  they  had  spilled 
all  their  crimson  mist  into  floating  veils  again,  and  these  lifted, 
and  spread  away  in  changing,  melting  purple,  like  vanishing 
robes  of  angels. 


THE   BEST   WORD.  503 


CHAPTER  L. 

THE  BEST   WORD. 

"  I  ALWAYS  meant  it,  if  this  happened.  That  is,  if  they  would 
have  it  so.  What  else  is  there  for  an  old  life  to  do,  but  to  join 
itself  to  some  young  ones  1  That  is  what  I  have  been  after, 
among  the  young  lives,  for  years.  To  find  and  try  them,  if 
haply  they  would  let  me,  anywhere,  join  on.  Really,  not  arbi 
trarily  ;  I  was  n't  going  to  adopt,  and  repent.  But  Rael  has 
been  my  boy  ever  since  he  was  a  man  ;  and  France,  well,  I  don't 
know  how  I  should  have  managed,  if  they  had  n't  managed  to 
come  together !  "  Miss  Ammah  said  all  this  to  Mr.  Everidge, 
about  her  house  and  her  property,  and  her  "  plans  for  sun 
down,"  as  she  said. 

Rael  and  France  were  to  have  Rose  Ridge ;  they  gave  it  that 
name  among  themselves,  from  the  wonder  of  that  night  of  their 
betrothal;  and  she  was  to  have  her  home  with  them,  just  when, 
and  so  much  as,  she  wanted. 

"  If  I  get  helpless  and  a  burden,  it  sha'n't  be  to  them,"  she 
said.  "  I  would  n't  be  a  burden  to  an  own  child  ;  for  there 's 
no  need  of  it.  There  can  be  house  enough  and  help  enough 
and  separateness  enough  ;  I  've  planned  it  all.  I  want  to  give 
them  whatever  good  there  is  of  me,  and  I  've  made  sure  I  do 
suit  them  somehow,  old-woman  fashion  ;  and  they  are  going  to 
let  me  share  the  better  and  the  beautifuller  of  themselves.  I 
don't  see  why  I  should  n't  have  a  family,"  she  ended,  in  France 
Everidge's  own  precise  words. 

They  were  to  be  her  children  ;  none  the  less  the  children  of 
their  fathers  and  mothers  that  they  were  to  verify  those  myths 
of  perfection,  an  old  maid's  children,  also. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Everidge  were  to  take  the  place  that  summer; 
the  suggestion  of  it  had  been  the  home  word  she  had  had  for 


504  ODD,    OB   EVEN  ? 

France  and  for  Israel  to  hear  that  night.  It  was  France's  very 
own  bright  idea  of  a  few  weeks  ago,  that  she  had  not  dared  to 
speak.  Horteuse  and  Cornelia  would  be  up  here  ;  Helen  with 
the  Kaynards,  at  Oldwoods,  where  they,  being  of  the  great 
cousinhood,  had  rooted  near  the  Bannians. 

In  the  bright,  early  autumn  would  be  the  wedding  here  ; 
then  the  house  would  change  hands. 

Of  course,  there  was  busy  talk,  down  there  in  Boston,  about 
the  odd  match.  Helen  and  Euphemia  gave  it  a  great  air,  as  well 
as  they  could,  borrowing  largely  from  France's  first  letters  of 
last  summer,  about  the  "way-off  places  of  the  farm,"  the  superb- 
ness  of  the  hills,  and  the  majesty  of  the  old  maple  avenues. 
You  can  imagine,  perhaps,  what  they  would  say. 

Israel  Heybrook  came  down  for  a  few  weeks  among  the  libra 
ries  and  the  bookshops,  and  his  old  professor  and  student- 
friends  at  the  Institute.  Then  France's  people  saw  that  she  was, 
at  any  rate,  going  to  marry  a  man. 

"  It  won't  do  for  a  precedent,  though,"  said  an  old  gentleman, 
father  of  daughters,  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Everidge,  at  an  evening 
gathering  at  the  Everidge  house.  France  had  certain  things 
done  carefully  after  the  accustomed  order  that  she  could  so 
soon  be  done  with,  that  no  one  might  suppose  her  to  be  in  any 
hiding  about  it.  "  It  won't  do  for  a  precedent.  Farmers  can't 
afford  to  take  wives  out  of  our  cities,  —  unless,  indeed,  the 
money  can  be  made  to  pay  for  what  the  wife  can't  be ;  and  that 
is  n't  marriage.  No,  it  won't  work  as  a  principle." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Everidge  thoughtfully,  "  that  we 
could  do  better  with  our  money,  or  our  daughters,  than  now 
and  then  to  return  to  the  soil  what  originally  came  from  it,  and 
to  put  back  a  transplanted  living  into  conditions  that  the  world 
needs  over  again' every  generation  or  two." 

The  father  of  daughters  shook  his  head.  "  Every  plough 
man  is  n't  an  Israel  Heybrook,  and  every  drawing-room  girl 
is  n't  a  Frances  Everidge.  Those  two  are  odd  ones,  —  but 
they  've  made  it  even  ! " 

But  the  best  thing  that  was  said  of  the  marriage  was  said  in 
the  hour  that  it  took  place. 


THE   BEST   WORD.  505 

It  was  in  the  sunny  Kose  Ridge  parlor,  of  a  fair  October  morn 
ing.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Everidge,  with  their  other  children,  were  to 
take  the  noon  train  down  to  Boston.  Miss  Amman  was  to  go 
with  them,  and  stay  a  month  or  two  at  the  Berkeley. 

The  rooms  were  open  all  through,  cheery  with  the  first  slight 
touches  of  winter  brightness,  that  are  so  pleasant  while  the  glow 
of  summer  yet  lingers,  making  pictures  of  warmth  without  and 
within  that  meet  and  mingle  before  the  first  shiver  of  real  cold 
has  come.  Clear  little  hickory  fires  were  burning  on  the  low 
hearths,  and  the  rich  duskiness  of  soft  rugs,  thrown  down  upon 
cool  mattings  and  canvas,  gave  the  home-gathering  look  to  cosey 
centres  and  corners.  The  gallery  windows  were  fairly  banked 
with  verdure  and  bloom,  through  whose  perfumed  screen  the 
sunlight  sifted.  Here  already  were  France's  own  seat  and  low 
central  table,  where  she  should  sit  in  the  winter  time  that  she 
had  so  envied  of  Miss  Ammah,  with  the  snows  that  she  had  craved 
to  see  in  their  magnificence  shining  upon  the  hills,  and  her 
husband  coming  in  and  out  in  the  joy  of  the  life  they  would 
have  begun  to  establish  "as  it  might  be,"  as  France  had  half 
dreamed  it  out  before  she  had  dared  to  begin  to  dream  at  all. 

Bernard  Kingsworth  married  them.  He  chose  to  give  her 
so,  in  the  Name  in  which  only  he  had  had  strength  to  give 
her  up. 

When  her  own  father  and  mother  had  kissed  her,  Rael  took 
her  hand  and  led  her  over  to  his  mother,  the  modest  country 
matron,  who  might  else  have  waited  till  her  turn  and  right  had 
passed  by. 

France  put  her  arms  right  round  her  neck. 

"  Kiss  her,  mother  ;   she  is  my  wife,"  said  Rael  proudly. 

Mother  Heybrook  kissed  her.  Then  she  put  her  back,  and 
looked  at  her  in  her  young  beauty  and  her  simple,  pure,  white 
robes.  "  She  's  a  great  gift,  son  ;  but  you  are  —  Israel  •  " 

The  rest  of  it  was  in  her  heart,  as  it  is  in  the  Bible,  —  "  As 
a  prince,  thou  hast  had  power  with  God  and  man,  and  hast 
prevailed." 

THE   END. 


^mmmm 


AA      0001997220 


